


pick it up, pick it all up and start again

by Annerb



Series: Armistice Series [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Drama, F/M, Mutual Pining, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Recovery, Sequel, Slow Burn, Slytherin Ginny Weasley, mostly canon ships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-11-29 03:06:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 69,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11431866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annerb/pseuds/Annerb
Summary: The thing about war is that it never ends. Not really. The battlefields just change locations. Harry and Ginny after the war. (Sequel toThe Changeling)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is intended as the first in a series that covers the years after the Second Wizarding War. It is a sequel to 'The Changeling' wherein Ginny is a Slytherin. But like all stories, this is just one possibility.
> 
> Special thanks to Bethany and TimeShifter for being sounding boards and betas.

_they made you into a weapon and told you to find peace (-unfinished poems by s.z)_

 

“Potter.”

Harry doesn’t look up from the rubble he’s trying to shift. There’s a framed painting listing on the wall behind, partially hidden by a pile of rock. His wand is shaking slightly in his hand, a fine river of dust and rubble stubbornly cascading back into place no matter how many pieces he charms out of the way.

A mournful-looking woman with a wide lace collar peers back at him from the battered canvas.

“Potter,” the voice insists again, and Harry tears his eyes from the painting to see Madam Pomfrey regarding him, her hands on her hips. Somehow she manages to look crisp and unruffled, her cap still firmly in place.  

“Come along,” she says, voice brisk. “I’ll have a look at you.”

“I’m fine,” Harry says. “I’m not hurt.”

He isn’t, right? He tries to take stock of his body, but it feels distant.

Another small cascade of pebbles run down the wall, spilling out into the hall.

“Kingsley insists,” she says.

“Really, Madam Pomfrey,” Harry tries, wanting this rubble shifted. _Needing_ to do it.

Her face is set in familiar lines. For all the time they’ve spent together over the years, he can tell this isn’t one of the times she can be put off.

“Harry,” she says, voice pitching lower with something horribly like pity.

He jerks his head once in agreement, anything to get her to stop looking at him like that. Without another word, Pomfrey turns on her heel and heads down the hallway.

Harry glances back at the still partially buried painting. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

She mutely stares back at him.

Harry trudges behind Pomfrey, stepping over piles of rubble and armor and fluids he tries not to look at too closely. Rather than leading him to hospital, she leads him down the stairs and into one of the classrooms. It’s been set up as an aide station, so he has to assume the hospital was yet another casualty of the damage.

His hands tighten into fists, his heart pounding loudly in his ears.

_The diary, the ring, the locket, the cup, the diadem, the snake_ , he thinks, the endless litany of syllables almost meaningless at this point. _And me_.

“Sit,” Pomfrey says, pointing at a camp bed.

Harry obeys, but almost immediately wants to push back up to his feet. He curls his hands around the edge of the bed, his knee bouncing up and down in the face of this sudden unwanted immobility.

“Jacket off,” she says.

He peels off layers of grimy, worn clothing until he’s just in his undershirt. He can’t remember how many days ago he put this shirt on. Was it two? Three?

Pomfrey looks him over intently, words murmured under her breath as she casts diagnostic spells. He feels the gentle tingle of them on his skin as if from a distance.

_The diary, the ring, the--_

“Does it hurt?”

“What?” Harry asks, looking up at her.

She considers him for a long moment. “Your scar.”

It’s only then he realizes that his fingers are pressing into his forehead. He drops his hand. “No.”

She nods curtly, but doesn’t press further. Lifting his arms, she clucks her tongue over the burns on his skin.

“Curse-induced?” she asks, voice brisk.

“Flagrante,” he says, and the break-in to Bellatrix’s vault seems like years ago. He glances down at the half-healed welts. “We had some dittany on hand.”

“Well, at least there was that.”

She fiddles a bit longer, healing a few minor cuts here and there, easing a bruise. These small tasks completed, her wand drops to her side. “How do you feel?”

It’s a strange question, one Harry isn’t sure how to answer. Should he tell her about the low-level buzz of panic at the back of his brain, something that keeps making him feel like he’s forgotten something important, like there _must_ be one more thing to do. Because it can’t be done. There’s always been…more. And yet, for all the jitteriness, his body feels sluggish, not able to keep up with his scattered thoughts.  

\-- _the locket, the cup--_

Pomfrey’s hand is gentle on his knee, pressing down to stop the twitching movement. “When was the last time you had a meal, child?”

He feels his shoulders hunch, something like anger crawling up his throat at the patronizing tone. “I feel fine,” he bites out.

She gives him a long flinty stare, but eventually nods, apparently satisfied. “Well, then, Potter. Nothing a few good meals and some rest won’t cure. Think you can handle that?”

“Yes, Madam,” he forces himself to say. “Can I go?”

Her lips press together, but she doesn’t argue. “Yes.”

He jumps to his feet, intensely grateful to be up and moving again. He thinks he hears her sigh as he leaves, pulling on his jacket as he goes.

Outside in the hallway he pauses, fully intending to go back and finish helping the painting, but he can’t quite remember where that had been. The castle feels unfamiliar, landmarks missing, walls collapsed.

_God, so much damage_ , he thinks, that terrible buzzing building in his ears again.

Someone passes by, and without thinking, Harry follows, just needing to go _somewhere_.

The student glances warily back at him, eyes widening when she recognizes him, but doesn’t try to talk to him, thank Merlin. They continue down the hall in their strange single-file formation, eventually ending back in the Great Hall.

Harry nearly backpedals at the door, not wanting to be here. But the hall has emptied out a lot since he was here yesterday. (Was that really only _yesterday_?)

His eyes skim the space, looking for Ron or Hermione. He hasn’t seen them since he woke in his old dorm room a few hours earlier, the two of them still asleep in the next bed. There’s no sign of them.

McGonagall is talking to Mrs. Weasley. Off to one side, Charlie is with George, the two of them not talking, just sitting. Harry feels pressure squeeze across his chest, a painful burning bile crawling up his throat.

Maybe there’s a chance Ginny is still in the cloister, he thinks, fumbling for the map. Things were…quieter there. He’s sure of it.

Someone claps a hand down on his shoulder, and Harry’s entire body tenses, his hand going to his wand.

The hand instantly lifts. “Hey. Sorry.”

Harry spins to see Bill, looking worn and dirty and somehow apologetic when Harry is the one who needs to apologize.

Bill gives Harry a once-over. “Do you need to be seen by someone?”

Harry’s jaw tightens, and he tries to remind himself that it should be nice to be fussed over, no matter how much it makes him want to scream. “I just finished with Pomfrey.”

Bill nods.

Percy walks up to them, robes streaked with dust and tie hanging to one side. Harry almost doesn’t recognize him, so unused to him looking anything less than polished. Catching sight of Harry, Percy opens his mouth to say something, shifting uncomfortably. His cheeks are red, but in the end he only apologetically shrugs.

Harry shrugs back, any lingering indignation long ago burned away by sheer exhaustion.

Percy turns to Bill. “Ginny’s gone to St. Mungo’s with her, uh, _friend_. She didn’t want him to have to go alone.” He grimaces. “Well, _refused_ to let him more like.”

Bill sighs, dragging a hand over his face. “Of course she did. It’s secure at least?”

Percy nods. “The Minister oversaw it himself. He said the Ministry offices could wait. The injured are more important. He’s running things from there.”

“Okay.” Bill eyes his brother. “Are you going over there?”

Something seems to pass between the brothers. Percy’s chin lifts. “I told him where he could find us if he needed us.”

Bill smiles wanly, clapping Percy on the shoulder.

Fleur approaches then, Bill sliding an arm around her waist and pressing a kiss to her forehead. She leans into him, her expression weary, but no less beautiful for the healing cut on her cheek.

“If you can keep Mum here,” Bill says to her, “we’re going to go take care of it.”

She nods.

Harry glances at Percy next to him. “Take care of what?”

He winces. “The Burrow.”

Harry frowns. “What do you mean?”

“It’s been empty since Mum and Dad had to leave at Easter,” Bill says.  

Harry isn’t really sure of the significance of that, just recognizes the grim cast to Bill’s expression. “Can I help?” he asks, desperate to do anything other than keep standing here. To risk having to _think_.

\-- _the diadem, the snake--_

Bill lifts one eyebrow in an expression that unexpectedly reminds Harry of Ginny. “Sure, it’s about time you made yourself useful.”

Fleur murmurs, “Are you sure?”

Bill squeezes her. “We’ll keep him safe.”

Harry bites back a caustic remark about not needing a babysitter, not particularly wanting to antagonize Bill. He’s probably safer now than he’s been his entire life.  

Isn’t he?

Bill seems to read his expression anyway. “Remind me, how many times have you almost died in the last 24 hours?”

Harry rubs at the back of his head. “Yeah, well, I’m not planning on doing that again for a while.”

Bill snorts. “We may not know each other that well, Harry, but even I know what you plan rarely has any affect on what happens.”

Harry feels himself blanch, his thoughts spiraling dangerously.

_And me. And me. And me._

“Hey,” Bill says, something awful in his voice. “Harry…”

“Can we go?” Harry says.

For a moment it looks like Bill may push, hand reaching out at if to touch him again.

Harry deliberately turns away, stuffing the map back into his pocket.

“Yeah. Sure,” Bill says. “Let’s go.”

Harry glances once more around the space, fingers twitching, thinking of the painting, the stains on the floor, Ron and Hermione. With a quick turn, he Apparates away. Someone can yell at him for Apparating without a license later if they care.

He appears on the lane in front of the Burrow. For a long moment it is silent, the kind of silent that used to dog them on the run, wrapped up tightly in wards and hopelessness.

Two more pops in the road behind him chase the feeling away. Together they move up the lane.

The gate is hanging off its hinges.

Harry forces himself to lift his eyes to the house.

It’s somehow worse even than Hogwarts. Seeing this lovely, vibrant place empty and broken, and it finally connects in his head. Since Easter, Percy said. Meaning since they were captured at Malfoy Manor and the Weasleys were exposed. Forced to go on the run. All for the crime of helping him.

And here, part of that price.

The three of them stare at the house for a long moment, taking in the scorch marks and broken windows.

Harry takes a step forward, needing to fix this.

Bill puts an arm out to stop him. “Wait.”

Harry looks up at him. “What?”

But Bill’s attention is on the house, his brow furrowed in concentration. Taking a few steps forward, he pulls his wand, creating a string of complicated spells Harry has never seen before.

After a few minutes, Bill lowers his wand. “Those bloody bastards,” he mutters. “Left us a few extra gifts.” His expression is dark, the scars on his face only seeming to deepen.

“Can you break them?” Percy asks.

Bill snorts. “I’ll choose not to be offended by that question, little brother.”

Harry doesn’t know if he’s imagining the crackle of energy in the air, just watches intently as Bill carefully untangles a series of curses strand by strand. It takes about twenty minutes altogether, Bill finally lowering his wand.

“Come on,” Bill says, voice brusque.

Harry follows him up the path, hearing Percy charm the gate back into place behind them.

Inside the house, it’s even worse. It's been completely tossed, not so much as if anyone was searching for something, but just wanted to destroy. Worst of all is the graffiti splashed on the walls, the glistening red substance still seeming wet.

_BLOOD TRAITORS_

Harry swallows back his horror and picks up one of the kitchen chairs.

Without another word, they all set to work.

Harry makes his way into the sitting room, Scourgifying the filthy words off the wall. He just wants them _gone_. He’s nearly worked his way around the room when he stubs his toe on something, almost falling.

It’s the special family clock, lying facedown. Squatting down, Harry wedges his fingers under the edge, straining and grunting as he lifts it back to place.

It nearly falls back down on him twice, and he knows that if Percy or Bill walk in right now they’ll probably yell at him for not using magic, but this matters. With another heave, it finally settles back firmly on its base. The glass in front of the clock is shattered.

Harry taps it with his wand, the cracks and breaks creaking as they repair, the sound lifting the hairs on the back of his neck. As the glass clears, he can see the hands inside.

Most of the family hands are pointing to _school_ or _home_. Ginny’s says _hospital_.

It’s Fred’s hand that is pointing to _travelling_.

Harry feels an awful sort of pressure crawling up his throat. With one last nudge, he squares the clock in place.

*     *     *

An Auror appears at the Burrow less than half an hour after they arrive. Harry gives Bill a sharp glance, but the older man just shrugs. “Kingsley insisted. If you want to fight the Minister of Magic over it, feel free.”

Harry sighs. He supposes it will just be another thing that’ll be difficult to adjust to, having to answer to the adults around him again.

He goes back to work, but the Auror seems twitchy, sticking annoyingly close to Harry even after Bill and Percy get the first of the wards up in place.

Harry has moved on to the kitchen by that point, vanishing rotten food and setting the abandoned plates to washing themselves. Or trying to at least.

He winces as another plate breaks against the sink.

The Auror curses under his breath, as if he can’t stand to watch Harry butcher the common household spells anymore. “I’ve got it,” he says, repairing the plate.

Harry shrugs, not caring enough to argue.

They’ve just about finished with the kitchen when a Patronus sweeps up the walk, coming to a stop in front of the Auror, speaking words Harry can’t hear.

It takes him a moment to place the animal--a lynx. Kingsley’s Patronus. It’s been almost a year since he’s seen it, since it swept into the wedding tent and pushed everything into motion. Almost a year since he stood with Ginny in his arms as he fumbled through the steps of a dance while wearing someone else’s face. It seems more like a dream than a memory. Hazy and distant.

“He’d like to speak to you,” the Auror says.

Harry blinks, his thoughts struggling to come back to the present. “What?”

“Kingsley won’t be able to leave to come to you, Harry,” Bill points out, now standing in the doorway. “He’s holding everything together by will alone right now.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “Yeah. All right.”

The Auror looks relieved. Harry wonders if he was planning on dragging him there against his will.

He kneels down in front of the fireplace, conjuring a fire. “We’ll go by Floo.”

Harry shrugs.

Bill touches Harry’s shoulder, and he still can’t help but tense under the touch. “If you get a chance…”

Harry looks back at him. “What?”

“Could you just check in on Ginny? I know I shouldn’t worry. It just makes me anxious having her out of sight.”

Harry remembers far too well being at Shell Cottage when word came of Ginny’s disappearance. Remembers scouring the Marauder’s Map day after day for a dot that never appeared.

She’s fine, he reminds himself. 

Only now they’ve lost a brother, and none of them will ever forget that even for a moment.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, anxious to move again.

The fire is roaring now. “I’ll go first,” the Auror says, stepping into the flames before Harry can answer.

Once on the other side, the difference from the quiet of the Burrow is startling. Dozens of raised voices, the sounds of cries and moans and people calling out names. St. Mungo’s is abuzz with movement, with the aftermath.  

“Mr. Potter!” someone shouts.

Suddenly there are people pressing close, camera flashbulbs going off in his face, hands pulling at his clothes.

He’s thankful for the Auror, the man bustling him back into the restricted sections of the hospital.

“What was that?” Harry demands.

The Auror just gives him a look like he’s being thick. “This way.”

Giving a wary glance back at the room they just left, Harry starts down the direction the Auror indicates.

In the hallway, a mediwitch stops, staring. As he passes, her hand reaches out, just gently touching the sleeve of his coat. Before he can even react, she pulls away, the Auror stepping towards her.

Harry glances back over his shoulder, and she’s just staring at him, even as the Auror puts an arm across her, holding her back.

“Thank you,” she says.

For a second he thinks to ask for what, but he knows, doesn’t he? He closes his eyes, the final thud of Voldemort’s body echoing in his ears. He nods at the mediwitch before turning away.

“In here,” the Auror says, opening a door at the end of the hall.

It’s a large room that may have been a waiting room at some point, now filled with tables and filing cabinets and freestanding boards covered with papers, maps, and pictures.

“Harry. How are you?”

He turns to find Kingsley regarding him, his arm tucked into his body with a sling, wearing rather ragged looking purple robes.

“Hasn’t Pomfrey reported to you?” Harry says, not quite able to keep his annoyance out of his voice.

Kingsley merely raises an eyebrow at him. “Yes, well, a lot of people have spent a long time worrying about you, whether we needed to or not.”

Harry reluctantly nods, acknowledging that. It’s a mild rebuke, all things told.

Kingsley gives him a smile lined with exhaustion. “I’m sorry to drag you down here. I guess I need to hear it straight from you that this is all done.”

“You mean Voldemort,” Harry says.

Everyone in the room seems to stop working, turning to stare.

Even Kingsley can’t hide the tiniest wince. “Yes.”

“It’s done,” Harry says, and maybe that’s as much a reminder for himself as a reassurance for Kingsley. _It’s done, it’s done, it’s done._

_The diary, the ring, the cup--_

Harry clears his throat. “Where he is now…there’s no coming back.”

He expects Kingsley to press for details, but instead he nods. “Okay. Thank you.”

Harry turns, looking at a row of boards standing near him, realizing they are covered with the names and pictures of Death Eaters; dead, captured, and otherwise.

“Is there anything else I need to know right away?” Kingsley asks. “I’m hoping we’ll have time to talk in more detail later, but for now...”

Harry points at a picture. “Don’t bother looking for him. Voldemort killed him months ago.”

“Okay,” Kingsley says, nodding at another wizard, who takes the photo down. “Anyone else?”

Moving closer, Harry taps his finger on Peter Pettigrew’s face. “You’ll find his body in Malfoy Manor, if Bellatrix didn’t already dispose of it.”

“Voldemort’s work as well?”

“In a way.” He shakes his head. “It’s complicated.”

Severus Snape looks out at him from behind a red X across his face. Harry pulls the photo down. Snape scowls back at him.

Harry walks over to another series of boards. The fallen defenders of Hogwarts, he realizes with a jolt.

His vision seems to dim for a moment, the faces swimming in front of him. There are dozens and dozens. With a shaking hand, he pins Snape’s scowling face to the wall. Harry can’t say why this matters, just knows that it does.

_He was necessary_ , he remembers Ginny saying.

He looks at Kingsley, waiting for him to protest, but he just nods.

“Shacklebolt,” one of the Aurors says, a parchment gripped in her hand.

Kingsley takes it, looking down at the information. “Yes. Okay. Take Winters with you. And Gowan.”

“Yes, sir,” she says, disappearing out the door at a run.

Everyone left in the room has gone back to work, clearly having no more time for Harry. He isn’t sure if he should be relieved or offended.

“Sorry about that,” Kingsley says, but doesn’t bothering explaining. “Things are still a bit hectic.”

From what Harry can gather, they are trying to secure Death Eaters, release prisoners, deal with the injured, and establish safe zones. It’s a bit overwhelming to realize just how cut off he has been this last year, so buried in the hunt for Horcruxes that the larger battle has gone on almost unnoticed.

“What can I do?” Harry asks, his fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh.

Kingsley’s look of surprise morphs into a smile. “I think you’ve done more than enough, Harry. Why don’t you let us handle the rest?”

Harry’s hands clench into fists. “I think I’ve earned it, wouldn’t you say?”

Kingsley looks a little taken aback. Still, his hesitation is obvious even to Harry. He glances down at Harry’s hands, and Harry wonders just what Pomfrey said to him.

After a long while, he nods, looking thoughtful. “Come back in the morning.”

Harry opens his mouth to argue.

His face is stern. “In the morning, Harry. You’re no use to anyone exhausted.”

Harry bites back another caustic response. “Fine,” he says.

He can survive waiting eighteen hours, right?

Kingsley puts his hand on Harry’s shoulder, walking him back towards the door. “Now I know you may not like having an Auror trailing around with you, but times like these, people get desperate. Once the Burrow has been secured again, I’ll pull him.”

“I’m not sure that’s where I’ll…” Harry hasn’t really thought about where he’s going to live. He hasn’t thought about any of this.

“Well, for now, it would make everything simpler if you stayed there.”

“Sure,” Harry says.

Out in the hall, Harry’s Auror looks up as they walk out, moving back towards him.

“Thank you,” Kingsley says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And with that, the door closes, Harry firmly on the outside.

The hallway is buzzing with voices. “Where to, Potter?” his Auror asks.

Harry honestly has no idea, just lets his feet take him down the hallway.

People are staring, whispers following him.  

It isn’t long at all until a tall woman with broad shoulders and a serious face strides up to him. “I am the Hospital Matron, Mr. Potter,” she says, voice brusque and matter of fact. “Are you injured?”

“No,” he manages to say. “I’m not… I just…” He glances around the hall, the people sitting in clumps in the hallways.

Somehow that seems to be explanation enough, because the Matron nods, walking briskly down the hallway as if she fully expects Harry to follow her. He does, but mostly because he’s at a loss of what else to do.

As they move down the hall, she gives him a brisk breakdown of the number of patients. How many are critical. How many are going to be fine but don’t necessarily have anywhere to go.

Harry wants her to stop, his heart pounding painfully in his chest like it’s going to give out, but he should hear this, shouldn’t he? The damage, the cost of that long night.

People fighting for him, to give him the chance he needed.

More of the medistaff occasionally stop to stare at Harry, people standing in doorways. He’s used to scrutiny of a certain sort since he turned eleven, but this feels different.

He has no idea how long they walk the halls, how many familiar faces he sees. Just knows that one important one is missing.

It suddenly feels imperative. He promised Bill after all.

“What about Tobias Burke?” Harry asks.

“Tobias Burke?” the Matron asks, something just a little off in her voice. “He’s on…a different floor.”

Harry stands up taller, trying to pretend authority he doesn’t have. “Show me.”

She gives him a bald glance, like she knows exactly what he’s trying to pull.

“Please,” he tacks on.

She waves over an attendant. “I have to return to my duties, you’ll understand. But Astrid can take you down there.” She looks at the Auror still trailing Harry. “Be sure you keep close.”

Harry isn’t sure what to make of that, but follows after Astrid as she leads them down a sterile set of stairs. The lights above seem overly bright against the grey walls. They step out onto a lower floor, and it’s pretty much nothing but a long straight hallway with doors along each side. There are no windows or furniture or soft details at all.  

There’s two Aurors standing behind a small desk, the two of them nodding at Harry’s Auror in greeting.

“Tobias Burke?” Harry asks.

The two Aurors give each other a look but don’t comment, one of them moving down the hallway. “This way.”

There are charts hanging by each doorway, Harry peering at them as he passes, recognizing more than one name.

Jugson. Dolohov.

Death Eaters.

“Here you go,” the Auror says, lifting his wand to undo wards on the doors.

Harry would think this is all a mistake, except there it is, clear as day, Burke’s name on the chart by the door.

Harry’s Auror does not look happy, pulling the guard aside to say something.

“He’s not a threat,” the other Auror says. “Not the condition he’s in.”

Harry reaches for the handle, pushing the door inwards before his Auror can protest.  

The room is small with no windows or anything of comfort like the spaces upstairs. There is only a bed with a simple chair next to it. As he suspected, this is where Ginny sits, her head lowered over a book as she reads out loud, her voice soft and lilting and somehow captivating.

_“It was while gliding through these latter waters that one serene and moonlit night, when all the waves rolled by like scrolls of silver; and, by their soft suffusing seethings, made what seemed a silvery silence, not a solitude: on such a silent night a silvery jet was seen far in advance of the white bubbles at the bow. Lit up by the moon, it looked celestial; seemed some plumed and glittering god uprising from the sea.”_

The door clicks shut behind Harry, and Ginny turns to look at him, her eyes widening.

“Harry,” she says, like this is the last place she expects to see him.

“Hey,” Harry says. “Uh, Bill asked me to make sure you were…”

“Oh,” Ginny says. “Right.”  

They consider each other for a long moment before Ginny looks back down at the book in her hands.

“What was that you were reading?” Harry asks.

She shows him the cover. Though pretty tattered, he can still read the title. _Moby Dick_ , it says. It sounds vaguely familiar to Harry. “Muggle book, isn’t it?”

She nods. “One of his favorites.”

Harry’s eyes move to Burke on the bed, noting the pale and drawn look to his face, even in sleep. “How is he?”

Ginny reaches out and touches his arm. “Okay, considering.”

Harry glances at the place under the blanket that is flat where a leg should be. He’s forced to think of Mad-Eye, like they are a whole new generation simply replacing the old. He isn’t sure Burke would appreciate the comparison.

“Why is he down here?”

Ginny’s lips press together. “They aren’t saying. But clearly they suspect he’s a Death Eater.”

“Burke?” Harry asks. He may not particularly like him, but the idea that he is a Death Eater is ridiculous.

“He’ll be pleased to know his performance was so believable.” Ginny smiles down at Burke, something grim in the curve of her lips as she gently brushes a piece of hair off his forehead. “He pretended to be one of them. Hung out with them, cursed little kids when they asked him to, but all the while, he collected their secrets and gave them to me. To the DA.”   

Harry remembers Burke’s rather triumphant cursing of Pansy when she tried to hand him over to Voldemort. Only now considering the looks of outrage on some of the Slytherins’ faces.

“Is that why you’re here? To make sure the Aurors don’t mistake him for a Death Eater?”

“Or worse,” she says, her expression darkening.

“You think someone would try to hurt him?”

She lifts one shoulder in a seemingly casual shrug. “It was stupid of him to even be in that fight. Half the people would have loved a chance to get even with him for fooling them. The other half probably still thought he was on Tom’s side.” She shakes her head, her voice hardening slightly. “He never should have been there.”

Harry considers that. He may not know Burke all that well, but he knows the bonds of friendship. “That would have meant leaving you to fight without him.”

She closes her eyes. “He always was an idiot.”

Harry shifts his weight, feeling that strange restlessness building in his chest.

“Where is Smita?” he asks before he can stop himself. He didn’t see her name on the list of casualties or injured. But he would also expect her to be here by his bedside, right?

“She went into hiding with her family last August. We haven’t heard a thing since.”

“Oh,” he says, rather inanely. It’s a bit overwhelming, realizing how little he knows about what’s happened.

He watches her leaning over Burke, the way she touches him, and is forced to remember all the times he saw Ginny and Burke’s dots hovering near each other in the cloister. He’s overwhelmed by the sudden feeling that he really doesn’t want to be here.

“I guess I should--” he says, taking a step back towards the door.

She looks up at him, and he feels like he is completely transparent, every petty thought visible to her.

She frowns. “Harry—”

The door shoves open, Harry barely scrambling back enough to avoid being hit by it.

A wizard strides in mid-sentence, shouting as Harry’s Auror grabs for his shoulder, “—my son!”

“Sir, I must insist,” the Auror says, darting a look at Harry as he steps further out of the way of the door.

The wizard slaps his hand away. “You’ll insist nothing. Why are there Aurors outside my son’s room?” His eyes fall on Ginny, still sitting by the side of the bed holding Burke’s hand. “What are you doing in here?”

“Mr. Burke,” Ginny says, getting to her feet. “I’m Ginny Weasley. I’m Tobias’s—”

“I’m aware of who you are,” he very nearly spits. “I lay this at your feet, girl.”

Harry takes a step closer, not particularly caring for the way he’s speaking to Ginny.

“Herbert,” says a witch Harry can only assume to be Burke’s mother. “Now really isn’t the time.”

Mr. Burke looks down at the bed, his eyes lingering on his son’s leg. Something in his posture seems to loosen. “Stupid foolishness.”

Harry doesn’t think they’ve seen him, the way they barged in and nearly clipped him with the door. “From what I’ve heard,” he says, “your son is a hero.”

Mr. Burke swings around, his eyes widening for a moment as he realizes just who is standing there. He recovers quickly. “I raised him to be politic, not _heroic_.” He practically spits the last word like it’s something disgusting, and Harry feels anger surging up his throat.

“Well, I always do prefer pissing you off to making you proud,” a hoarse voice comments.

Harry turns to see Burke awake.

“And see where that got you,” Mr. Burke says, his own voice rough.

Burke’s lips twist. “I thought all that mattered was choosing the winning side? No one can deny I did that.” He glances over at Harry. “Hey, Potter. Didn’t expect to wake up and find you weeping at my bedside.”

“Tobias,” Mrs. Burke chastises, Ginny stepping back out of her way so she can approach the bed.

“Hey, Mum,” Burke says, giving her a casual wave as if totally unaware of the tension in the room. He looks past her to the doorway. “Mags.”

It’s only then that Harry notices a younger girl standing hesitantly in the hallway, her hair the same sandy shade as Burke’s. She’s pale, with dark smudges under her eyes.

She edges her way into the room. “Are you really okay?”

Tobias gives her a grin. “Right as rain, sweetums.”

The younger girl pulls a face. “You know I hate it when you call me that.”

“Which is exactly why I do it.”

She still looks a little uncertain, hands wringing in front of her.

“C’mere,” Burke says. He pulls her up on the bed with him, folding her into a hug.

Harry is really beginning to feel like an interloper now.

Mr. Burke must think so as well, giving him a hard look. “This is a time for family.”

“Of course,” Ginny says, her voice even, and not at all as if she’s being tossed out. She picks up her things. “You’ll stay with him? Keep him safe?”

Mr. Burke frowns at her. “He’s my son.”

“Gin,” Burke says.

She pauses, looking back at him.

“Thanks for dragging my sorry arse to safety.”

She gives him a tremulous smile. “You owe me big time.”

Something a little uncertain crosses his face. “You’ll come back?”

“Wild hippogriffs.”

“Merlin,” Burke says. “That’s the last thing we need.”

They walk out into the hall, Mr. Burke firmly shutting the door in their faces.

“Well,” Harry says, “they seem pleasant.”

Ginny sighs. “They almost lost their son.”

“Some people did lose their sons.”

Ginny looks up at him, her expression stricken, and he feels like a complete and utter arse. “Ginny…”

She shakes her head, striding away from him towards the staircase. Harry curses under his breath. He glances at the Auror. “Can you just…give me a minute?”

Harry doesn’t wait for an answer, darting up the stairs after Ginny.

“I’m sorry,” he says when he catches up with her. “That was stupid.”

She still doesn’t stop though, pushing out into the floor above, so he takes hold of her elbow to slow her down.

She comes to a stop, pulling her am out of his grasp, but not without grimacing, a hiss of pain escaping her.

Harry immediately steps back, feeling a squeeze of panic in his chest. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t believe her. He can see it now, the slight sheen on her forehead, the lines of pain on her face he mistook for exhaustion. He looks up, glancing around the hall, and sure enough there are a few staff members staring at him in interest. May as well put their curiosity to use, he thinks. “Can I get some help?”

They perk up immediately, one of them coming down the hall towards them.

“Harry, seriously, I’m fine,” Ginny says.

He takes her elbow, walking her over to a bench as the mediwitch approaches. “Sit.”

“Mr. Potter?” she asks.

“She’s hurt,” Harry says.

The mediwitch looks down at Ginny, taking quick inventory of her. “Where’s the pain?”

She looks like she may still fight, but eventually lets out a long breath. “My side.”

“Here?” she asks, touching Ginny’s ribs.

Ginny lets out a hiss, pulling back from the touch.

“How did this happen?”

She shakes her head. “I really don’t know.”

“During the fight?” Harry asks.

“Probably,” she says.

Harry looks at the mediwitch. “She was at Hogwarts.”

To the witch’s credit, she seems to immediately forget all about Harry, her face serious and focused. “Let’s get you into an exam room. Can you walk?”

“For Merlin’s sake,” Ginny mutters, getting to her feet, but not without a grimace.

“Is your family here, dear?”

Ginny shakes her head.

The mediwitch looks up at Harry. “Can you contact them?”

“Of course,” Harry says. He refuses to leave Ginny though. He looks at his Auror, who has finally caught up, an annoyed look on his face. “I need you to get a message to her brother Bill.”

“I was assigned to protect you, Potter, not serve as your personal messenger boy.”

Grabbing some parchment from a nearby desk, Harry scribbles down a message, shoving it at the Auror. “No offense, but I managed to survive the last year without your protection. I imagine I can survive the next five minutes.”

He strides down the hall, popping into the doorway he saw Ginny disappear through. It’s a small exam room, and Harry comes to a stop when he sees that it’s just her and a Healer.

“I’m sorry,” the Healer says, “you’ll have to wait outside.”

Harry nods, taking a step back.

“No,” Ginny says, her voice firm.

The Healer gives her a hard look. “He can’t--”

“He bloody well can,” Ginny insists. “He stays. Or I go.”

She doesn’t once look at him.

The Healer gives her a hard glare but doesn’t argue, muttering about stubbornness under his breath.

Harry hovers near the door, listening to the sound of Ginny hissing in pain as the Healer examines her.

“Binding charm?” he asks.

Ginny nods.

The Healer shakes his head. “Primitive, but better than nothing, I suppose.” With a swish of his wand, he neutralizes the charm.

Ginny’s face drains of color, her whole body seeming to list. Harry takes a half step towards her.

“Here we go,” the Healer says, reaching for her. “Let’s lie down and take a look.”

He pulls up her shirt, and Harry looks down at the tiles on the floor.

“Well,” he says after a while. “At least two of your ribs are cracked.”

“Great,” Ginny says, voice tight with pain.

The Healer passes by Harry, moving towards a small potions station.

Almost against his will, Harry glances up at Ginny. She’s curled on her side, her shirt rucked up to reveal a deep purple bruise all along her side. Harry knows he should look away, but he’s too caught staring at her skin in horror. He can’t believe she’s been walking around like this.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she says.

His eyes snap up to her face. There’s a fading bruise on the side of her mouth, one clearly suffered long before the battle began.

_Like their punishments, the Carrows._

_Is that as bad as it looks?_ he wants to ask. Only the truth is, a large part of him just doesn’t want to know.

She drops her eyes to the bed.

“Drink this,” the Healer says, helping Ginny sit up. “For the pain.”

Ginny downs the potion in a series of quick gulps, laying back down with a grimace.

“We’ll just wait a bit for the potion to work,” the Healer starts to say.

Ginny shakes her head. “No need to wait.”

He frowns. “This is going to hurt.”

“Just do it,” she says, and there is something in her expression that Harry really doesn’t like.

He steps closer, taking both of her hands in his.

Ginny looks up at him in surprise, but her fingers wrap around his.

“Episky,” the Healer says.

Ginny grimaces, her face paling and fingers digging into his hands, but doesn’t make a sound.

The Healer probes her ribs with his fingers. “Just one more.”

Ginny nods.

The second time, she doesn’t manage to hold back a cry of pain, her eyes squeezing shut.

“All done,” the Healer says. “I’ll be right back with a salve for the bruises.”

She’s breathing heavily through her nose, her brow furrowed with pain.

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” Harry asks.

She doesn’t look at him, eyes still squeezed shut. “Because at least the pain felt…real.”

“Ginny,” he says, hands tightening around hers.

Bill walks in then. “Harry?” he asks, striding towards him. “Where’s--?”

Harry steps back, reluctantly letting go of Ginny’s hands.

“Christ, Gin,” Bill says, taking in the damage.

“I’m okay,” she says.

Bill brushes the hair back from her face. “Stop being so bloody brave.”

Ginny lets out a shaky huff. “Brave isn’t really my style.”

“Says the girl who’s been walking around with broken ribs,” Harry mutters.

“Stupid,” Bill says.

“Now that is my style,” Ginny murmurs, her face beginning to soften.

Soon enough after that she drifts off, the potion finally kicking in.

Bill looks up at Harry. “Thanks for sending for me instead of Mum and Dad. I’m not sure they could have taken this on top of…everything else.”

“Of course,” Harry says.

The Healer reappears, giving Bill the once over. “You’re actually family, I take it?” he asks, still apparently exasperated with Harry’s refusal to follow the rules.

“I’m her brother,” Bill says.

The Healer nods. “Okay. You can take her home if you like. No heavy lifting for a few days, and this potion as needed, and she’ll be fine.”

Bill nods. “Great. Thank you.”

The Healer waves his thanks away, already heading for the door and his next patient, no doubt.

Bill slides his hands under Ginny, lifting her up into his arms.

Despite a few sleepy complaints, Ginny seems to bury into him, her face turned into his neck.

“Merlin,” Bill mutters, his arms pulling her closer. “I remember when she was barely a wisp of a thing. And now, here we are.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, for lack of anything else to say.

“Grab the potion, will you?” Bill says as he heads for the door, as if Harry coming with him is a given.

“Sure,” Harry says, scooping it up and following them out into the hall.

His Auror is waiting there, still looking cross and put out. It occurs to Harry that there are probably a million more important things he could be doing than trailing after him.

They’re just nearing the Apparition point when Ginny mumbles, “Harry?”

“He’s still here, Gin,” Bill says, voice amused.

They’ve barely gone any further down the hall when Ginny says, “Harry?” again.

Bill stops, letting Harry get where Ginny can see him. “Yeah?”

She squints at him as if trying to make him out. “You really came back?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I came back.”

She nods, her eyes closing.

Harry glances up at Bill, but he doesn’t say anything, just moving into the Apparition point. “Hold on, Gin,” Harry hears him say.

They Apparate back to the Burrow, Ginny groaning slightly.

“Sorry,” Bill says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

They go up the front walk, Harry opening the door for Bill.

Instead of going upstairs, Bill settles Ginny down on the couch in the sitting room, which has mostly been put back to rights. “I’d make up some excuse about her room not being clear yet, but honestly, I just want her where I can see her.”

Harry is fine with that idea himself.

Ginny doesn’t seem to mind either, already fast asleep again. Bill looks up at Harry. “I’m going to check in with Percy. Do you mind?” He gestures at Ginny.

“Sure,” Harry says, sitting down in a nearby chair. Somehow the thought of being still for a while isn’t as annoying as it was before.

“I’ll be back soon,” Bill says before disappearing back outside.

It feels surreal, sitting in the quiet of the Burrow. After all this time, it smells the same. Sounds the same. Feels the same. Even as it all seems lifetimes away.

And Ginny. Right there. So close he could touch her. It all has the hazy feel of a dream he’s going to wake up from at any moment. Settling further back in the chair, Harry drops his head back against the cushions, watching the slow movement of Ginny’s shoulders.

His eyes get heavy, too heavy to keep open, so he stops trying.

The front door slams open, Harry jerking awake. He gets a bit caught up in a blanket someone has draped over him, his heart in his throat as he fumbles for his wand.

“There you are!” Hermione says.

It takes a moment for Harry to gather his wits, lifting a finger to his lips to hush her, glancing at Ginny.

Ron is only a few steps behind Hermione. He crosses over to stand near Ginny.

“Is she okay?” he asks.

Harry nods, pulling off his glasses to rub at his eyes. “A couple broken ribs. We just brought her back from St. Mungo’s.” He glances out the window at the shifted light, wondering how long ago that was.

Hermione gives him a sharp look. “You spoke to Kingsley?”

Harry nods, knowing her real worry. “He just wanted to know that it’s really done.”

Ron looks up from Ginny. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Harry says.

Ron lets out a breath, nodding. “Good.”

He sits on the floor near the couch, Hermione collapsing back in a nearby chair.

The three of them look at each other, and he wonders if they find it as surreal to be here as he does. Just seeing them here makes some of the buzzing panic at the back of his mind fade.

Harry isn’t sure how long they sit there before Ron says, “Well, I don’t know about you two, but I’m starved.”

Hermione looks at him, something slightly incredulous in her expression.

It bubbles up unexpectedly, because really, this is the last thing Harry should be feeling right now, but he’s sitting in the Burrow with his best mates and it’s done and he’s still breathing, and the noise bursts out of his throat.

Now Hermione and Ron are looking at him like he’s the barmy one, but it isn’t long until Ron’s lip twitch and then Hermione is slapping a hand over her mouth and the three of them are helpless with completely inappropriate laughter.

Ginny stirs on the couch, and Harry bites down on his lip, trying to somehow stop this avalanche of relief and exhaustion.

“I think I should be able to pull off pasta,” Ron says, pushing up his sleeves and turning for the kitchen.

Hermione looks alarmed, trailing after him, no doubt to make sure he doesn’t burn anything down.

Harry thinks he should probably get up and follow them, but he’s content to stay in the chair, watching his two best friends move about the kitchen. He drops his head back against the chair, feeling the tempting pull of sleep again.

“When did that start?”

He turns to find Ginny awake, her attention on Ron and Hermione. As they watch, Ron’s hand touches Hermione’s waist, leaning down to say something close to her ear.

“During the battle,” Harry says.

“Took the end of the world for them to figure it out, huh?”

“House Elves, actually,” he says.

Ginny raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t ask.

“How do you feel?”

She watches Ron and Hermione for another long moment before closing her eyes. “Tired.”

She sleeps through dinner, but that’s just as well because Ron’s pasta is terrible.

They eat every last bite of it.

 


	2. Chapter 2

By unspoken agreement that evening, the three of them all trudge up to Ron’s room.

“Sorry, mate,” Ron says to the ghoul still happily rattling around up there with his shock of red hair and pocky face.

Harry helps him wrestle the ghoul back up to the attic while Hermione sets up bed space for them all. They do it without much conversation, falling back into the patterns that have governed their lives for months.

By the time they get back down, Hermione’s cast cushioning charms and spread sleeping bags on the floor, three in a row.

“If anyone wants the bed…” she says, face a little pink.

“Nah,” Ron says. He glances at Harry.

“Looks good to me,” he agrees.

After taking turns in the bathroom, the three of them settle in, piled up together on Ron’s floor.

Harry easily drifts off to the familiar sounds of his friends’ slumber—rustling covers and quiet whispers.

It’s still dark when he wakes with a start, the pressing blackness absolute and for a moment he is back there, in the Forest. He sits up, fighting to free his arms of the sleeping bag.

He sucks in a breath, the room slowly coming into focus, the moving figures on the poster-covered walls like ghosts. Next to him on the floor, Ron and Hermione have shifted towards each other in their sleep, her face pressed up against his shoulder.

Harry forces himself to relax, scrubbing his hands over his face. He lies back down, but despite the fact that it’s only been a few hours, he knows he won’t get any more sleep.

Without giving it much thought, Harry gropes for his moleskin pouch and the map hidden away inside.

Only, he doesn’t need the map anymore, he remembers.  

Slipping out of his sleeping bag, he carefully crosses over to the door. He eases out into the hall, climbing downstairs, past Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s room where a faint line of light shines out from under the door. He keeps going down past the bathroom to the next landing where soft snores emanate from Percy’s room. Fred and George’s door is firmly shut and very quiet.

Harry’s steps quicken as he nears the first floor landing. Bill’s door is closed, but Ginny’s stands open. Harry crosses over to it, glancing inside. Her bed is empty, covers neatly made. He frowns, going down the last flight of stairs, wincing a bit as he hits the creaking step, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet house.

He finds Ginny in the sitting room. She’s still stretched out on the couch, face soft in sleep. He supposes no one wanted to risk waking her up by moving her.

Above her is a large window, and beyond that, the stretch of the front walk. It’s dark enough that he can’t make out anything beyond the gate.

There could be anything out there, really.

He sits in a chair, turning it slightly to face the couch.

There are wards in place. Aurors are keeping an eye on the place. There is no reason to worry. But he’s awake anyway.

He sets his wand across his lap and stares out the window.

The sky is beginning to light with false dawn when Harry feels his eyes finally getting heavy. It’s been hours, but Ginny hasn’t so much as stirred.

He can make out the road beyond the gate now. It’s empty.

Getting to his feet, he goes back upstairs, lying down next to Ron.

He wakes to Ron and Hermione’s hushed voices a couple hours later.

“How did you sleep?” Hermione asks, seeing that he’s awake.

“Fine,” he says, reaching for his glasses.

He rolls out of bed.

*     *     *

Mrs. Weasley is in the kitchen with Fleur, the two of them quietly making breakfast. Percy sits at the table, looking a little out of place.

Mrs. Weasley looks up at them as they file in. She’s wan, her eyes red despite the smile she gives them.

She pulls Ron into a fierce, lingering hug. “Good to have you back home, dear,” she says.

Ron doesn’t even bother to look embarrassed, grabbing his mum back and hugging her firmly. “Hey, Mum,” he says, brushing her cheek with a kiss.  

“Did you sleep all right?” she asks, smiling at Hermione. She clucks over the small cut on Hermione’s face. “I have something for that.”

Hermione smiles, accepting her own hug. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Weasley turns to Harry last. She touches his face, hands on his cheeks as she just looks at him, like she’s so _proud_ , and it’s hard to hold her gaze.

“Harry,” she says, and then pulls him into a hug.

He’s been taller than her for a while now, but it’s still weird to think of Molly Weasley as small. He feels tall and ungainly as she hugs him, and he wishes he weren’t so awkward at this.

There are probably things he should say, _I’m so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen this way_. But his throat is thick and all he can do is pat her on the shoulder a bit.

“Well,” Mrs. Weasley says, finally pulling back away. “Breakfast?”

Ron nods enthusiastically. “I’m starved.”

She looks them all over again, before nodding firmly.

It hasn’t been long since they were staying at Shell Cottage, but Fleur still takes the time to kiss each of them on the cheek. Harry vaguely notes that Ron even manages not to blush, crossing over to sit close to Hermione.

“Where is everyone else?” Ron asks as they work their way through an impressively large breakfast.

Mrs. Weasley sits down with a sigh, a cup of tea tucked between her hands. “Your father went into the ministry. Bill went to help McGonagall.”

“Charlie and George?” Ron asks, voice hoarse.

Mrs. Weasley’s face creases. Fleur reaches out and squeezes Mrs. Weasley’s hand.

“Still at Hogwarts,” Percy reports.

“And Ginny is still sleeping,” Fleur says.

Harry frowns, craning his neck, but he can’t see into the sitting room from his seat. She’s probably exhausted from everything, but that still seems like a lot of sleep.

After a brief, impatient knock, the back door pulls open, the same Auror from the day before—Butler, maybe?—striding into the kitchen. “Oi, you ready, Potter?”

Still as charming as always.

Mrs. Weasley pushes to her feet. “Well, good _morning_ , Mr….?”

The Auror looks her over. “Bailey,” he supplies.

“Mr. Bailey,” she says, giving him a smile that Harry would never want aimed at him. “Thank you so much for keeping us safe. For looking out for Harry. But please keep in mind that in my home, we say good morning when we first enter it.”

Bailey looks taken aback, but quickly recovers. “I apologize.” He looks around at everyone. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Mrs. Weasley responds, retaking her seat. “And Harry will be ready when he has finished eating and not a moment sooner.”

Bailey scrubs at the back of his head, smart enough to look slightly scared. “Uh, yeah. Of course. I’ll just wait outside.”

He beats a hasty retreat.   

Harry is pretty sure he hears Ron snicker into his eggs.

“What was that about?” Hermione asks, looking at Harry.

“Kingsley told me to come back this morning. See what I can do to help.”

“Already?” she says, looking alarmed.

“As opposed to when?” Harry asks. After every Death Eater has escaped or been caught?

“It’s just so soon,” Hermione says, and Harry notices that despite a long night of sleep, she still looks pretty exhausted.

Still, it rankles.

“And you’ve already…”

“I’ve already what?” he asks, voice hardening.

Fleur is the one to speak. “Done so much.”

Harry feels his irritation flare. “I see. Because that was all I was good for.”

_Raised like a pig for the slaughter._

“Might as well put my wand up and go back to Privet Drive.”

Fleur simply raises an eyebrow at Harry’s rudeness.

“Harry, mate,” Ron says, stepping in. “That’s not what anyone meant.”

Harry shakes his head. “Sure. Fine,” he says, itching to get going. He pushes to his feet. “Are you coming?”

Ron’s eyes widen, glancing at Hermione and then his mum.

Mrs. Weasley is staring down at her teacup, her earlier energy seeming to have drained away.

“I think I’m going to stay around here today,” Ron decides, looking tense like he’s waiting for Harry to blow up.

Ron hasn’t seen in family in months. And Fred…

“Of course,” Harry says, meaning it. “That’s fine. I’ll let you know where I end up.”

Ron doesn’t look convinced. Harry pats him on the shoulder, giving Hermione the best smile he can muster. “I’ll see you later.”

Ron and Hermione share a look.

Grabbing his coat, Harry walks out of the house, meeting Bailey by the gate. “Let’s go.”

The Auror doesn’t argue.

*     *     *

St. Mungo’s is slightly quieter today, though no less crowded. Everyone seems less frantic, or maybe just more exhausted. Harry can’t quite tell. He just ducks his head and makes a beeline for the makeshift office.

The office is also quieter, the Aurors scattered off on assignment, no doubt.

There’s a door off to one side that Harry isn’t completely convinced was there yesterday. The Auror heads for it, and Harry follows. As they near, he can hear voices raised in debate.

Right before they get to the open door, Bailey puts a hand out, stopping Harry.

A voice Harry doesn’t recognize floats out.

“I’m not saying that we don’t owe him a debt. That he didn’t do something great. But he’s a kid. An untrained kid. And frankly, at the moment he’s arguably the most important thing going for us, him being alive and victorious. If we have to take him out into the field, he’s going to get people killed. You know I’m right.”

Harry looks at Bailey, but his face is carefully blank despite the fact that Harry suspects his overhearing this was planned.

Bailey walks forward, knocking on the open door. “Potter’s here, sir.” He jerks his head at Harry, gesturing for him to go in.

The room is an office with a large wooden desk, behind which Kingsley sits, looking much more like a Minister of Magic today.

Harry isn’t convinced that’s a good thing.  

“Harry,” Kingsley says, getting up. He gestures at the other wizard in the room, a stern-looking man with grey-streaked brown hair and austere robes. “This is Robards. He’s overseeing the Auror department for me.”

“Potter,” Robards says, holding out a hand, and Harry forces himself to shake it.

The handshake lingers, the Head Auror taking a moment to look Harry over and not even bothering to pretend otherwise. Harry just meets his gaze.

“Had a good enough look?” Harry asks.

Robards expression doesn’t shift, but his eyes do dart up to Harry’s forehead. After another moment, he drops his hand and glances over at Kingsley. “Do you need me to stay, sir?”

“For a moment,” Kingsley says, shifting through the parchments on his desk, eventually picking one up. “I’ve had an owl from Minerva.”

It takes Harry a moment to realize Kingsley has aimed that comment to him. “Yeah?” he says, not sure what this has to do with him.

Kingsley walks towards Harry, still reading the letter. “She’s overwhelmed and needs some help.”

Harry shouldn’t be surprised, but he still is. He’s really getting sent back to school like a naughty kid. Something of his annoyance must show on his face, because Kingsley puts a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s no lightweight assignment, Harry. Minerva needs help and I don’t have anyone else to spare. You wanted to help, so help.”

Part of Harry feels like he’s earned the right to stand there with them, to know what is going on. But it’s never been clearer to him that he’s never really been a part of this. In their eyes, he’s someone to be protected, not someone to do the protecting.

“Fine,” Harry says. He glances at Robards. “After all, I’ve probably already gotten more than enough people killed.”

Kingsley sucks in a breath, but Robards doesn’t even flinch.

Harry heads for the door, passing by Bailey. “You should stay here. I’m sure there’s a lot more important things for you to be doing.”

“Harry,” Kingsley starts to say.

Harry just gives him a curt nod. “Minister.”

He walks out, not slowing down enough to see if Bailey follows.

*     *    *

Harry considers not going to Hogwarts, to blow it off out of spite, but only for a minute or two. He really does want to help. Wants something to do. Besides which, the idea of going back to the Burrow is strangely suffocating.

He Apparates outside the gates and walks up to the castle. There are more people on the grounds than he would have suspected, a series of tents set up on the grass like people are camping here.

He peers at some of them as he passes and realizes they are mostly students. Some people climb out of tents, staring as Harry walks past.

“McGonagall?” he asks the first student he comes across in the castle.

The student points down a hallway.

He enters a small room that it takes him a moment to identify as the teacher’s lounge. McGonagall is standing behind a desk with what looks like a large map of the castle in front of her, Flitwick and Bill standing next to her.

They all look up as Harry walks in.

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall says, looking surprised.

Harry comes to a stop in front of the desk, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Kingsley said you could use some help?”

She regards him for a long moment, her gaze sharp like she’s x-raying him, and if she tries to put him off for his own damn good he thinks he very well may lose it.

He needn’t have worried. “Yes, we certainly can,” she says, voice crisp and matter-of-fact. “We’ll begin in the Great Hall momentarily.”

Harry nods, retreating back out into the hall. Other students are gathering there already, and there’s a loud smattering of whispers and heads turning as he walks in. He pretends not to hear his name being murmured throughout the hall.

Seamus and Dean wave from across the room, and Harry gives them a thin smile.

“Hey, Harry.”

He turns to find Neville standing with a younger girl Harry thinks is in Slytherin. Neville doesn’t look any better today than he had when Harry first saw him at Aberforth’s. His face is difficult to look at straight on.

“This is Nicola,” he says, gesturing at the girl next to him.  

“Hi,” she says, not looking particularly starstruck, thank goodness.

“Hi,” Harry says.

They are saved from further polite talk by the arrival of the professors.

“First off, I would like to thank you for all volunteering to help.” She glances around at the stones surrounding them all. “Putting Hogwarts back to rights will be a long, arduous process. Before we can even begin to repair, we must neutralize the lingering threats.”

She turns to Bill standing next to her.  

“Mr. Weasley has offered to lend us his expertise.” Her lips press together as she regards Bill. “And from his time as a student here, I can tell you he excels at getting around boundaries and obstacles.”

Bill widens his eyes, pressing a hand to his chest as if to profess his innocence, and there is a smattering of tired laughter from the students.

“We will start with a review of important spells and precautions.”

Seamus lets out a dramatic groan. “More schooling?”

McGonagall’s lips press together. “This is a school, Mr. Finnegan, in case you have forgotten. But if you prefer, you may proceed ahead and get yourself eaten by an acromantula with my blessings.”

Seamus pauses as if seriously considering it. “Nah. Carry on, Professor.”

“Why, thank you,” she says wryly.

Seamus grins, Dean leaning into him to say something.

McGonagall teaches them what to look out for, the basic diagnostic spells and wards and neutralizing charms needed to sweep the castle clean before they can even start thinking of repairing anything.

Neville helps McGonagall put students in teams, many people shooting Harry speculative glances.

“Harry,” Bill says, appearing by his side. “You mind sticking with me today?”

His shoulders bunch, assuming this is yet another attempt to keep him safe.

But then Bill says, “Honestly, there is some scary shite out here. I thought maybe we could handle most of that?”

“Yeah,” he says. “That sounds fine.”

Harry spends the day with Bill, learning the feel of a death spot, of a lingering tangle of volatile magics just out of sight, or a booby trap. He carefully marks maps with mandrakes and devil’s snare and walls too damaged to stay standing.

Every time anything starts to intrude, any painful thought or reminder or the acid of guilt in his stomach, he starts working twice as hard.

He keeps moving.

*     *     *

“Excuse me?”

Harry looks up to find the girl from the Great Hall regarding them from down the hallway.

“Nicola, right?” Harry says.

She nods, but doesn’t seem to have any interest in him. “Are you Ginny’s brother?”

Bill turns. “Uh, yeah, I am,” he says, and Harry can tell he isn’t used to being referred to that way.

“Is she okay?”

Bill smiles down at her. “She’s fine. Nothing a little rest won’t fix.”

Nicola doesn’t look like she believes that. “Well, I have her trunk. I thought she might want it. But I didn’t know how to…”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks,” Bill says. “It’s a good time to stop anyway.”

Harry frowns. “Already?”

Bill scrubs a hand over his face. “You really are relentless, you know that? But I’d quite like to see my wife again before I’m eighty.”

Harry winces. “Of course.”

Bill puts a ward up. “We’ll pick up in the morning.”

“Sure,” Harry says.

Bill crosses over to Nicola. “Where’s the trunk?”

“Our common room,” Nicola says.

He gestures for her to go ahead. “Lead the way.”

Harry doesn’t move, still staring at the rubble.

Bill glances back when he realizes Harry isn’t following him. “Are you coming?”

“What?” Harry says. “Oh. I think I’ll check in with Neville and the others before I head back.”

Bill’s eyes narrow.

“I’ll see you back at the Burrow,” Harry says.

“Okay,” he says. “But don’t miss dinner or Mum’ll have my head.”

Once Bill is gone, Harry turns back to the rubble. With a flick of his wand, he lifts the ward.

He’ll just fix one more thing.

*     *     *

It’s late by the time he makes his way back to the Burrow.

As he comes up the walk, he realizes George and Charlie are sitting out on the porch.

“You’re late,” Charlie says.

George doesn’t even look his way.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Guess I lost track of time.”

He opens his mouth, wanting to say something to George, but there really isn’t anything to say. Instead, he nods at Charlie and walks inside.

Ron and Hermione are in the sitting room with Ginny. She’s awake now, but still doesn’t seem to have moved far, propped up on pillows as she stares out the window.

“Hey,” Harry says.

“There you are,” Ron says. “Hermione was about to send out a search party.”

Her lips press together. “I was not.” She still gives him a careful once-over. “How are you?”

“Fine,” he says. “I’m just going to run up and take a shower.” He’s covered in dust and soot, and can’t smell very good.

He glances over at Ginny, but she hasn’t so much as looked in his direction.

He showers and changes, and no matter how exhausted he is and how tempting his sleeping bag looks, he forces himself back downstairs.

“Mum left you a tray,” Ron says, gesturing at a plate on the table.

Harry’s stomach lurches in protest, but Hermione is watching closely, so he leans over and folds some ham into a piece of bread. He sits down at the foot of the couch, leaning back against it.

“So what did you two do today?” he asks.

“Mostly helped Mum. Cleared up a few more things around here.”

Harry nods.

“Charlie finally got George to come back from Hogwarts.” Ron looks down at his hands. “I think he thought that if he left without Fred, then it was really…”

The small amount of food Harry’s eaten twists painfully in his stomach.

Hermione reaches over and takes Ron’s hand. He gives her a watery smile.

“Goyle’s been arrested,” Hermione reports, clearly trying to give Ron a moment to recover himself.

“Yeah, okay,” Harry says grimly, not all that surprised to hear it.

“Caught him trying to use an illegal cross-apparition point to France,” Ron says.  

“They’ve caught quite a few people that way apparently,” Hermione says.

“And Crabbe?” Ginny asks.

To judge from Ron’s expression, this is the first she’s spoken in a while. Harry cranes his neck around to look at her.

She’s looking at Hermione. “Was Crabbe with him?”  

There’s an uncomfortable silence in the wake of the dead boy’s name.

Hermione shakes her head. “He died in the battle.”

“Did he?” Ginny asks, and there is something unnaturally still about her.

Ron and Hermione give each other shifty looks.

“How?” Ginny asks.

“Ginny…” Hermione says, apparently taking this as morbid curiosity.

“Crabbe,” Ginny says, like the name is a little hard to get out. “How did he die?”

Neither Ron or Hermione say anything, and Ginny turns to Harry.

He has no idea why this matters to her so much, just that it clearly does. “There was a scuffle in the Room of Requirement. He was shooting killing spells at us, darting around, and then he cast fiendfyre.”

“Fiendfyre,” Ginny repeats, horror in her voice.

Harry nods. “I don’t think he knew how to control it. The whole room went up.”

“Destroyed by his own magic,” Ron says. “Strangely fitting, innit?”

Ginny’s face is ashen, one hand pressing to her chest, fingers curling in.

“Ginny?” Harry asks, reaching out and touching her leg.

She looks away, wincing as she shifts her weight, her legs pulling up under her. “Do you think I could have some more potion?”

“Of course,” Hermione says, pushing to her feet. “Let me get it.”

She fetches the bottle while Ron and Harry continue to uneasily watch Ginny.

But rather than pouring a dose when Hermione gives it to her, Ginny tucks the bottle in against her body, shifting as if to get up off the couch.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asks, frowning.

“I’m going up to my room,” Ginny says, struggling to find her feet.

Harry pops up, reaching out to help her.

She lifts her hands, staving him off. “I’ve got it,” she says, voice sharp.

He drops his hands.

They watch as she slowly makes her way across the room.

“Has she said anything?” Hermione asks once she’s disappeared up the stairs. “About what happened at Hogwarts?”

“Not a word,” Ron says, his expression troubled.

That night when Harry wakes, staring up at the ceiling as his mind absolutely refuses to quiet down, his feet carry him down to the sitting room without much thought. He stands in the doorway a long time, staring at the empty couch.

He sits and waits for the sun to rise.

*     *     *

“McGonagall says it’s time for you to take a break.”

Harry doesn’t stop, not turning to look at Neville. His spell spreads out over the corridor, a few areas lighting up. At least three more active magical spots, waiting to pull in the unsuspecting passerby.

“Harry,” Neville says.

“When I’m done,” Harry says.

Neville doesn’t seem deterred. “How about now instead?”

Harry tilts his head, eye squinting as he tries to make out something a little further up the space. It looks like it might be the telltale green sheen of a death spot.

“She told me I could curse you if I needed to.”

At that, Harry finally turns to look at Neville. He’s got a flask and a paper bag in one hand, and his wand in the other. For a moment Harry considers calling his bluff, but Neville just looks baldly back at him despite the rather bashful smile on his face, and it occurs to Harry that this isn’t the same Neville from before he left.

Neville wiggles the flask as if in invitation. “Yeah?”

“Fine,” Harry says, blowing out a breath. “Five minutes.” He puts up a ward across the hallway so no one will go down it until after he’s done.

Harry reaches for the flask, but Neville is already moving away. “Let’s go outside.”

Harry doesn’t have time for a bloody picnic, but Neville’s halfway out the nearest gaping hole in the wall. Biting back an irritated sigh, Harry climbs out after him.

Outside, there are a dozen tents set up in a close little defensive-looking circle, people wandering between them. Thankfully Neville doesn’t head towards them, instead moving a short distance away.

They sit in the grass, staring out over the lake. The surface still has some sort of oily substance in patches here and there, someone kneeling down and talking to a Merperson in a small bay.

A small clutch of maybe a dozen students sits nearby, passing food around as they take a break as well. Occasionally one of them glances over in their direction, but Harry can’t honestly tell if they are looking at him or Neville.

Neville follows his gaze. “A lot of the DA members came back to help.” His brow furrows. “The ones who could, at least.”

Harry feels his throat close up, passing the pumpkin juice back to Neville. At latest count, six DA members died in the fight, another dozen at St. Mungo’s recovering. It’s a miracle it wasn’t more, considering how many underaged students stayed to fight.

“They say they want to help, but I think some of them don’t have anywhere else to go,” Neville says, watching them with a pensive expression. “We’re still trying to find out what happened to a lot of their parents.”

Neville feels responsible for them, Harry realizes.

“At least here the underage ones have the right to their wands, right?” Neville turns to look at him, like maybe he wants Harry to tell him he’s doing the right thing.

But Harry hadn’t been here. Neville was.

“We tried to carry on for you the best we could,” he says.

Harry considers pointing out that the DA had never really been _his_. “I’m sure you did a great job,” he says instead.

Neville shrugs. “Never could have done any of it without the others.”

“The others?” Harry asks.

“Yeah. Hannah, Luna, and Ginny. It was the four of us, from the very beginning. And Terry Boot. He helped a bit after we lost Luna.” He leans back on his hands. “But it was really Hannah and Ginny that kept us together, though both of them would deny it. I don’t know what I would have done without them.” He huffs. “Probably gotten myself killed. Merlin knows Gin saved my life more than once just on her own.”

_Of course she did,_ Harry thinks.

“Is she doing okay?”

“What?” Harry asks, looking up from the biscuit he’s crumbling between his fingers.

Neville frowns. “You’re staying at the Burrow, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry says. He thinks about her face last night as she asked about Crabbe, the way she didn’t come down for breakfast. “Ginny’s… I think she’s getting better.”

He isn’t sure if that is more wishful than anything.

“Good,” Neville says. “I’ll stop by to see her when I get a chance.”

“I’m sure she’d like that,” Harry says mostly because it seems to be what he’s supposed to say. “I’m going to get back to work.”

Brushing his fingers free of crumbs, he pops up to his feet, ignoring the slight light-headedness from moving so quickly. He strides off towards the Castle before Neville can say anything.

It’s only been a couple hours when he hears someone coming up the hallway behind him. He braces himself for another forced break when a much more familiar voice speaks.

“Can I help? Or have you finished it all yourself already?”

He turns to find Ron regarding him, a rush of something like relief flooding his body.

“Left you a few things,” Harry says. “Wouldn’t want you to feel left out.”

Ron rolls his eyes and slaps Harry on the shoulder. “Lucky me.”

Together, they make their way up the corridor, putting everything to rights as they go.  


	3. Chapter 3

Ginny wakes slowly, her tongue dry and heavy in her mouth, head slow and cottony. She blinks up at the ceiling above her, the beams coming slowly into focus, and then the swirly bit of plaster that doesn’t quite match the rest. A hasty patch after an incident from back when this was Charlie’s room. Possibly involving a Bludger, a salamander, and a fire of unknown origin.

Or so she’s always been told.

She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath.

Home.

Back in her room and her bed.

She has to take time to carefully count. Three days since she came home. She counts again just to be sure.

She lies utterly still, barely breathing, and waits for sleep to come back.

It doesn’t.

Rolling over on her side, she reaches for the bottle on her bedside table. It isn’t there.

She frowns, leaning further over the edge of the bed, but it hasn’t rolled onto the floor.

Getting up, she looks around on the floor, on her dresser, but it isn’t anywhere.

She crosses her arms over her chest, not particularly wanting to leave her room in search of it, but she needs it.

Pulling on a robe, she goes downstairs. The house is quiet as she pads across the kitchen, stepping into the stillroom. Bottles clink together as she searches through them, but her pain potion isn’t here.

Near the back she finds a tall, slim bottle of red liquid.

“Ginny?”

She puts the bottle down, arranging the others in front of it.

Her mother is in the kitchen when she comes back out. Ginny gets caught staring out the window for a moment. Afternoon already, she thinks, watching the sunlight fall across the trees in the orchard.

“How are you?” her mum asks, eyes sharp as she looks her over.

Ginny ignores the question. “I can’t find my potion.”

“Oh,” her mum says. “Well, it’s probably time to be done with that anyway. Are you hungry? What can I make you?”

Ginny’s eyes narrow, knowing an evasion when she hears one. “Mum, where is my potion?”

She doesn’t turn, still bustling about the stove, prodding the burner. “I dumped it out,” she says, words matter-of-fact.  

“What? Why?”

Her mum lets out a breath like a sigh. “Because that’s no way to cope.”

“That’s not what I’m—” Ginny starts to argue.

Her mum turns to look at her. “Yes, it is.”

“I’m in pain,” Ginny insists.

This numbness can’t last, after all. It never does.

Molly’s face softens. “No potion will fix that, sweetheart.”

Ginny tries to rouse some indignation, some anger as she looks back into her mother’s pale face, lined with worry and grief. All she sees is a fight she isn’t going to win.

So she doesn’t even try.

She turns for the stairs.

“Ginny,” her mum says, voice soft and horrible and _weak, weak, weak_.

She doesn’t stop.

“Aren’t you even wondering about Tobias?” she calls after her.

Ginny climbs faster.

*     *     *

The afternoon stretches on endlessly. Mum brings up a tray, leaving it on the dresser, but Ginny just remains on her side, eyes closed and breathing slow until she leaves.

Rolling onto her back, Ginny watches the shift of light across her ceiling, naming the colors as it fades from buttercream to amber to pink and then blood red.

Only after the house has settled, the voices softening and dissipating with the light, does she finally get back up. She braces herself for pain, but there isn’t so much as a twinge in her side.

Just another fact, another thing to observe and not particularly care about.

It doesn’t change anything.

She makes her way back down the stairs, passing through the kitchen into the stillroom. She pushes bottles to the side, digging way into the back.

The deep red liquid is still there.

She pulls it down.

_Tincture of poppy_ it says in her mum’s careful script. More facts and tidbits float through her mind. Dosages and uses and cautions.

She tucks it into her robe pocket.

Passing back through the kitchen, she pauses, noticing that there’s a plate of food on the table under a fading warming charm. She hasn’t been tracking the comings and goings of the household, honestly isn’t even sure who is staying here at the moment.

She frowns, but the puzzle doesn’t particularly interest her, so she moves on.

Passing by the sitting room, she glances inside, and Harry is there, sitting in a chair, his chin lowered towards his chest, glasses halfway down his nose.

She comes to a stop.

He’s here. Here and alive and sleeping in a chair in the sitting room. Everything seems to stutter for a moment, noise building in her mind.

Her hand closes around the bottle in her pocket. Turning, she heads for the stairs and the quiet of her room. Only she comes to a stop with her foot on the first step, her fingers tapping against the banister.

Cursing under her breath, she bows to the inevitable, and walks back into the sitting room. She comes to a stop in front of Harry, her eyes traveling over his sleeping form.

His hair is still shaggy, the longest she’s ever seen it, hanging over the edge of his collar. He’s dressed as if he just came in and sat down. She’d assume he just fell asleep here, but he’s turned the chair so it’s facing the window behind the couch, his wand still clenched in one hand.

Like maybe he fell asleep keeping watch.

It shouldn’t matter. What he’s doing. What this looks like.

Not her business.

She sits on the couch, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling.

She’s so tired.

So tired of making plans and looking for pitfalls and thinking, thinking, thinking every moment of every day. She wants it to all to just stop. It’s been so easy and simple, not having to think or feel or plan.

She pulls the bottle out of her pocket, the liquid looking almost black in the dark of the room. She knows exactly what this is, what it will mean. That doesn’t stop her from wanting it.

_Aren’t you even wondering about Tobias?_

She squeezes her eyes shut, wanting to be back in her room, in the quiet, in the perfect, easy stillness.

Only hiding in her room hasn’t changed the fact that the world is still out there. It doesn’t erase any of it. Fred is still dead. Tobias is still in hospital under guard. Everything that has happened still happened.

And Harry, sitting down here in the dark, still seeming to think he needs to protect all of them.

She looks at him again, taking in the details. The dust on his sleeve, the stain on his knee. She wonders what he’s been doing. Why he came home late enough to miss dinner. Has he been doing that a lot?

The days since she’s seen him last have done nothing to wipe away the worn, lean look of him. Like maybe he’s still just been going and going, like he doesn’t know what will happen if he stops.

Ginny’s more terrified to see what will happen if she stops being utterly still.

Putting down the bottle, she leans towards Harry, gently pulling the wand from his hand. His fingers tighten around the wood. She freezes, looking up at his face, but his eyes are still closed, like the movement was more reflex than anything.  

She touches the back of his hand, his skin warm under her fingers. “It’s okay, Harry,” she whispers. “You can sleep.”

He shifts, turning his body in the chair, his hand relaxing. She pulls the wand free, placing it on the table easily within reach. Grabbing a blanket off the couch, she drapes it over him.

She’s always been good at being what people need her to be.

Maybe she can be that again.

Putting the bottle back in the stillroom, she returns to the sitting room, face turned towards the window.

She’ll keep watch so he doesn’t have to.

*      *      *

Some time before dawn, Ginny climbs the stairs and lies down for a few hours. When she wakes, she gets into the shower, and puts on clothes. She eats breakfast, a quick glance into the sitting room confirming that Harry finally woke up while she was upstairs. He’s already gone again, back to Hogwarts, she assumes, filing the information away to deal with later.

Today, she has another errand to focus on.

She’s just finished putting her dishes back away when her mum walks into the kitchen.

“Ginny,” she says, looking surprised.

“Morning,” Ginny says like this is just any other morning, because she doesn’t think she can handle her mum trying to press her right now.

“Can I make you something?” her mum asks.

“I already ate.”

“Did you?” she says, clearly not believing her.

“Mum,” she says. “I ate. I promise.”

She nods. “All right.”

“I’m for St. Mungo’s,” she says.

“Okay, dear,” she says, and Ginny tries to ignore the way she looks pleased.

The floo powder burns her nose, the ashy fire dumping her into the main waiting room. It’s strange being here, at once feeling like it’s only been moments since Bill carried her away from here and like it has been ages.

In the hall, one of the first people she recognizes is Hannah.

“Hannah,” Ginny says.

She turns, eyes widening, and then she’s striding over and pulling Ginny into a hug. “Ginny!” she exclaims. “How are you?”

Ginny pulls back from the crushing hug. “Well, luckily my ribs are all healed.”

“Oh, sorry,” Hannah says, lifting a hand to her mouth.

“I’m fine, Hannah. I promise. What are you doing here?”

Hannah brushes a strand of hair out of her face. “Oh, I’m just making sure everyone has what they need. Luna just took her father home. Neville was here earlier for a bit too. He’s still trying to track down a few people’s parents.”

“Nicola’s?” Ginny asks. Her father, mother, and sister disappeared without a trace almost three months ago now.

Hannah shakes her head. “Not that we’ve been able to find.”

Ginny nods grimly, telling herself that she needs to check in with Nicola as soon as possible. And Astoria, if she can.

“You know Bassenthwaite is here, right?”

“What?” Ginny says, feeling her heart leap with hope. “Is he…?”

Hannah shakes her head. “He’s still in a coma. They say it’s just a matter of time.”  

“Right,” Ginny says, cursing herself for being stupid enough to hope. “Of course.”

“Tilly and Reiko are here though. I’m sure they’d like to see you.”

Ginny nods. “Where?”

Hannah leads her down the hall, turning into one of the first rooms.

“Ginny,” Tilly says, looking up from where she is sitting in a chair by the bed. Behind her Reiko is curled up on another bed, eyes closed.

“Hey,” Ginny says, walking over to hug Tilly. Pulling away, she glances at Reiko.

“Finally got her to get some sleep,” Tilly reports.

Ginny wonders just how long Tilly has been here. Her robes are wrinkled, her hair looking in need of a wash, but mostly it’s the dark smudges under her eyes that are worrisome.

She turns her attention to Bassenthwaite.

For someone who has always been larger than life, not just physically but with his booming laugh and gleeful flinging about the pitch, it’s strange to see him looking so still. So…diminished. Like he’s slipping away piece by piece.

“It’s just like him,” Tilly says, voice hoarse, “to be stubborn even about dying.”

“Where are his parents?” He has an older sister as well, if she recalls correctly.

Tilly’s lips press together. “They came by to say their goodbyes. I haven’t seen them since.”

Meaning while Ginny whiled away her time in bed, Tilly has been carrying this all by herself. She and Reiko.

But she’s here now.

Reiko looks peaceful in sleep, so Ginny focuses on Tilly instead.

“Why don’t we take a walk?” Ginny asks.

Tilly frowns.

“Hannah will stay with him, won’t you, Hannah?” Ginny says, giving her a look.

Hannah smiles. “Of course I will.”

“Ginny, really…”

“Tilly,” she says, voice canted just so, letting her know she is not going to bend.

She lets out a sigh. “Fine.”

They walk through the waiting room and out the front doors. Outside on the street, Tilly squints in the light. It’s a sunny day, not too warm, with just a bit of a breeze, and it feels wrong, that it can be so beautiful.

“Come on,” Ginny says, heading down one of the streets.

They barely make it halfway down the block before Tilly breaks the silence.

“My parents are already trying to break the betrothal,” she announces.

“What?” Ginny says, horrified. They can’t have the decency to just wait for the inevitable?

Tilly snorts. “Don’t want me to end up tied to a vegetable for the rest of my life.” Her jaw flexes as she lifts her face to the sky above. “It would serve them bloody right.”

“Tilly,” Ginny says, voice soft.

Only now that she’s finally started talking, she doesn’t seem able to stop. “It’s not like I _wanted_ to marry him. He was so bloody gracious and understanding about the whole thing. Because you’re right, he is terribly decent. And I still don’t want to marry him. But this is not the way I wanted to get out of it.” She turns to look at Ginny, her face twisted with rage and anguish. “He doesn’t deserve this. Caroline didn’t deserve this. None of them did.”

“No,” Ginny agrees, trying to breathe around the hard rock in her chest, the physical tangle of pain and guilt and rage that she can’t afford to let loose. She looks down at the pavement, the cracks and pits in the surface, and pushes it all back behind the wall in her mind where it belongs.

When she trusts herself to, she winds her arm through Tilly’s.

They walk on in silence.

*     *     *

Eventually Ginny returns with Tilly to Bassenthwaite’s room. She spends some time talking to Reiko, and then walking from room to room as she recognizes people. She sits and listens and watches Hannah figure out what everyone needs.

She’s exhausted by the time she gets to the end of the hall, but knows she has her most important visit left. Leaving Hannah to run her errands, Ginny walks down the dank stairwell and out into the guarded ward.

There’s an Auror behind a small desk.

“I’d like to see Tobias Burke.”

He squints at her. “You of age?”

“Yes,” she baldly lies, even knowing it would be a small enough thing for him to contradict.

But apparently he doesn’t really care enough to check her for the Trace, just nods. “You’ll have to leave your wand.”

She doesn’t bother fighting that, or the implication that Tobias may somehow be bloody dangerous. It’s on the tip of her tongue to insist yet again that he isn’t a bloody Death Eater, but no one seems inclined to listen to her.

Following the Auror down the hall, he lifts the ward on the door and gestures for her to go inside.

She eases the door open, and Tobias’s mum is inside, sitting by the bed.

“Mrs. Burke,” Ginny says. “Do you mind if I come in?”

“Miss Weasley,” she says. “Please do.”

It’s a warmer welcome than Ginny was expecting, considering the last time she was here. Crossing over to the bed, she looks down at the sleeping form.  

Tobias somehow looks even worse than he did last time she saw him. His face is pale, cheeks sunken in. She frowns. He should be better than this by now.

“He caught a fever,” Mrs. Burke says.  

“He did?” Ginny asks.

“He’s never been robust.”

Ginny thinks back, the way nothing ever went through the castle without Tobias catching it, usually worse than everyone else.

“He’s been asking for you.”

Ginny forces herself to look at Mrs. Burke, noting the dark circles under her eyes. “I can sit with him for a while, if you’d like a break.”

“Thank you.” She gathers her things before giving Ginny a polite smile.

“Thought they were keeping you out,” Tobias says as soon as the door clicks shut behind his mum.

“No,” Ginny says, not looking at him as she sits in the chair vacated by his mum.

Glancing around the room, Ginny notices a potion bottle on the table at the foot of the bed. For a moment she wants to reach for it. _Yearns_ for it.

Instead she sits perfectly still.

“How are you?” she manages to say.

“Swell. It’s nice and quiet down here,” he says. “Relaxing. Of course that’s probably because no one wants to visit a Death Eater. Other than my family.”

She ignores the caustic edge to his voice, focusing instead on something that’s been nagging at the back of her mind. “You never talked about her.”

“Magriet?”

“Yeah.”

Tobias shrugs. “What was there to say?”

“She’s your _sister_. It just seems unbelievable that I’ve known you this long and you never once mentioned her.”

“Kind of the family secret,” he says, staring up at the ceiling. “Daughter who isn’t all that she should be.” His voice is bitter, and having met his parents now, she has some better idea where that comes from.

“What do you mean?”

He glances at her. “You’ve seen her.”

Ginny nods.

“It’s a constitutional weakness. We were both born with it. Too much pureblood inbreeding,” he says with a sneer. “I played it up, of course. Got me out of sports.”

“And here I just thought you were lazy,” she says.

He gives her a boyish grin laced with poison. “I got to sit around and read books to my heart’s content.” His smile slips. “It was different with Mags. Back in our third year, she got sick. Really sick. When she turned eleven the next year, it was clear she was too weak to do magic. It just…drained her.”

“That’s why she never came to Hogwarts,” Ginny surmises.

He shrugs.

“You could have told me.”

“Well,” Tobias says, “family honor above all, and all that.”

She rolls her eyes, leaning back in her chair. “I wouldn’t know, being a blood traitor and all.”

“Exactly,” he says. “You have no family honor.”

“Not a jot, I’m afraid.”

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye. “Probably never considered hiding one of your siblings out of shame.”

“Oh, we considered it with Percy from time to time.”

Tobias huffs. “I imagine instead you just love the hell out of each other.”

“We have our moments,” she says, looking down at her hands.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “About Fred. He was…a force.”

Ginny nods, and changes the subject, because she’s just _can’t_. Doesn’t have any room for that right now. “I suppose my blood traitor family is the reason your father hates me.”

Tobias lets out a derisive snort. “He doesn’t think about you enough to hate you. Though I’m sure he doesn’t appreciate that you keep pushing Muggle books on me.”

She sits up, giving him an incredulous look. “What? You’re always pushing them on me!”

Tobias shrugs. “ _He_ doesn’t know that.”

“Berk.”

He gives her a baleful look. “So they never let me forget.”

He’s always just been Tobias to her, but she knows the status attached to the Burke family name. It’s probably one of the reasons the Carrows were willing to buy his act. He had more than one uncle and cousin on the other side. The weight of that must be hard to bear.

“They haven’t left your side,” Ginny says. It means something.

He looks up at the ceiling. “I’ve been so angry at them for so long, only now I’m lying here with my weak constitution taking forever to heal, and I’m wondering if they somehow knew.” He looks at her. “Everything with Mags happened right when the Dark Lord came back, at least when Potter started yelling his head off about it. So did we lock her away and not talk about her, let people think she was dead… Was that shame? Or was it protection? Did they somehow know how this would all go?”

“The war?” Ginny asks.

“Yeah, but also the compulsory education. It would have killed her, trying to go to Hogwarts. And the Dark Lord would have seen that death as nothing more than a strengthening of the bloodlines.”

Ginny can finally see it, what drove him to risk playing double agent. It was always more than Smita and Burbage. It was fighting for a world his sister could live in, out in the open.

She reaches out and touches his arm. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here.”

“It’s fine,” he says, but she can see it isn’t.

“I was on bed rest,” she tries to explain.

He raises an eyebrow.

She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Broken ribs.”

He frowns, his eyes trailing down over her body. “You all right?”

She knows he deserves the truth—that the real reason she was gone so long is that it was easier to sit in her room and take potions and not think. That part of her wants that back so badly she can barely stand it.

She can’t lay that on him though. He’s lost a leg and they think he’s a Death Eater and everything isn’t about her.

She smiles. “I’m fine.”

If he knows she’s lying, he doesn’t say anything.

“When do you get to go home?” she asks.

“They’re saying I’m still too weak. Not that I particularly want to go home.” As if it is a choice. Despite what they may say, there are still Aurors outside his door.

She will find a way to right this, one way or another.

For now, she pulls out the ratty copy of Moby Dick. “I salvaged this from the cloister. What me to read to you for a while?” She glances around. “Or is your father going to sweep in and kick me out?”

Tobias smiles. “I’d like to see him try.”

She’s been reading for about a half an hour when his mum returns. Ginny glances up at her, but doesn’t stop reading. Mrs. Burke doesn’t say anything, just sits and listens as she finishes the chapter.

Ginny looks at Tobias’ mum. “Would you like me to leave the book?”

Eventually she nods, taking it delicately in her fingers as if it is a dangerous thing. “Thank you.”

Ginny turns back to Tobias, touching his arm. “I’ll be back tomorrow. After the…”

The first of the funerals.

Tobias gives her a grim nod. “Give my respects.”

She leans over him, pressing her lips to his forehead. His hands grip her arms for a moment, squeezing firmly.

“Try not to give the mediwizards too hard of a time, yeah?” she says.

Tobias lets out a wheezy laugh. “You know me.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I do.”

*     *     *

That evening Ginny stands in front of her closet and realizes she doesn’t have anything to wear to the funerals. It’s a stupid thing to have not thought of until the night before. She has school robes, and her fancy dress robes from Slughorn’s Christmas Party, but neither are particularly appropriate. Everything else is a mishmash of Muggle stuff and thick sweaters and workout clothes.

Her Quidditch robes would be a particularly festive choice.

She tells herself it doesn’t matter what she wears, but for some reason it does.

Digging through the things hanging in her closet, she comes across an old set of blue robes. She hasn’t worn them in years, and sure enough when she pulls them on, they are several inches short of her ankles. Her bust has never been particularly impressive, but the cloth pulls and gapes across her chest for all it billows hugely around her stomach and hips. The high neck has a white lace collar, matched by lace at the fluttering cuffs. It’s a child’s set of robes, and she may not know what she is anymore, but she’s not that.

For a moment she feels frustrated tears rising, and it’s _stupid_. It’s a dress. It doesn’t matter.

“It’s a simple problem, Ginny,” she says to her reflection. “Just figure it out.”

Slipping the robes off, she pulls on her bathrobe. Crossing the landing, she knocks on the door to Bill’s room.

“Come in,” Fleur’s voice calls.

Ginny opens the door. “Hi.”

“Ginny,” Fleur says. “Come in.” She’s sitting at a table near the window, quill and parchment out.

Ginny steps inside, closing the door behind her. “Writing Gabrielle?”

“Yes,” she says with a smile that only seems partially forced. “She is thankful the war has ended, but still wishes me back with her.”

Ginny nods. “You must want to see them.”

“Of course,” Fleur says easily. “But I am where I need to be.”

Ginny finds herself unable to look at her anymore, glancing around the room. Maybe this was a stupid idea.

“Ginny,” Fleur says. “What is it?”

With a sigh, she holds up the robes. “I don’t really have anything to wear for the…” She stops, for some reason unable to say the word.

Fleur is already up. “Of course. Let’s see what you have?”

Ginny rather self-consciously takes off her bathrobe and pulls on the robes.

Fleur clucks her tongue. “Yes. This will not work. You have nothing else?”

Ginny shakes her head, her cheeks flushing.

“I would let you borrow something but…” She gestures between them, and Ginny doesn’t really need her to articulate the thought. Fleur is taller than her by a good few inches and has breasts Ginny could never dream of achieving. Other than that, Fleur is willowy where Ginny is rather not. Nothing Fleur has could ever fit her.

Fleur gives her a kind a smile. “Well then, let us see what can be done?” She circles around her, wand tucked behind her ear and eyes sharp for details.

Ginny stands, staring straight ahead. An old faded poster of Tia Moreno winks saucily at her from where she flies mostly naked on a broom. A relic from Bill’s Harpy-obsessed teenaged days. Ginny’s a bit surprised he hasn’t taken it down.

Fleur follows her line of sight, blowing Tia a kiss that Ginny swears makes the Quidditch player blush. “I find her charming,” Fleur admits.

“Really?” Ginny asks.

Fleur just gives her a Gallic shrug and doesn’t comment further, eyes back on the dress.

“Yes,” she says after a long while, pulling out her wand. “I think I know what to do. Do you mind?”

Ginny shakes her head.

With that, Fleur starts making marks with her wand, enunciating spells here and there. Ginny watches as the skirt gets cut off just below her knees, the extra fabric folding in on itself until it makes a small rectangular band. Fleur attaches this to the back of the robes, in effect gathering and pulling the waist in at the small of Ginny’s back. The white ruffles pull free next, each hanging thread carefully trimmed.

Fleur spends long moments staring at her bust.

“Yes. This may take something a little more.” She casts what seems to be a simple lengthening spell, and Ginny feels the tightness in her shoulders release, the fabric no longer gaping open across her chest.

The sleeves get the opposite treatment, shrinking until they only billow slightly, pinching in at Ginny’s wrists.

“There is nothing to be done about the fabric,” Fleur observes, “but a simple glamour should help with the color.” She says an incantation in French, and the color subtly shifts, darkening to a navy blue rather than the unflattering robin’s egg blue. She eyes it critically. “It will begin to fade after a few days, but we can reapply it.”

She circles Ginny one last time. “Yes. This will do.”

She guides Ginny over in front of the mirror on top of the dresser.

Ginny takes in the details, noting that she actually seems to have a shape now, the silhouette much more flattering. The shape of the high neckline has changed slightly, something Ginny can’t even specifically identify, but somehow makes it feel less like it was designed for a child. It’s not perfect, but it is simple and fits and is perfectly proper for what she has to face.

“Thank you,” Ginny says in a rush, and she doesn’t know why this should make everything feel slightly more doable.

Standing behind her, Fleur’s head tilts to one side. “On certain days a good dress can be like armor.”

She considers Fleur in the mirror. “Just like a pretty face,” she observes.

One of Fleur’s eyebrows lift, her lips curving slightly. “Perhaps.”

Ginny reaches up to squeeze Fleur’s fingers where they rest on her shoulder. Fleur squeezes them back, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“Now,” she says, stepping away and clapping her hands together. “What shoes do you have? And what will we do with your hair?”

Ginny puts herself in her sister’s capable hands.


	4. Chapter 4

They bury Colin Creevey on a quiet Sunday afternoon.

Ginny informs them that there was a church ceremony earlier in the day for Colin’s Muggle family and friends. His parents arranged for the burial in the cemetery to be private so his Hogwarts friends could say their goodbyes.

Carefully making sure their worlds never overlap, and Harry wonders if maybe this is part of the problem.

They walk up to the half circle of chairs where Colin’s family already waits, the elaborate wooden coffin waiting to be lowered into an open grave. It seems too big for the boy he remembers.

There are dozens of students already here, including Neville, Hannah, and Luna, who all pull Ginny into hugs as they approach.

“Harry.”

He turns, looking into the blotchy face of Dennis.

He’s wringing Harry’s hand, looking so grateful. “He’d be really glad you’re here,” he says. “Come meet our parents.”

Harry nods, glancing up helplessly at Ron and Hermione as they all follow him.

“Mum,” Dennis says. “This is Harry Potter.”

She looks up with vague interest, as if she’s struggling to focus through her grief. “Oh,” she says, holding her hand out. “Colin spoke of you quite often. It would mean a lot to him that you are here.”

Harry takes her hand, floundering for anything to say. “I’m…” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

She gives him a pained smile. “Thank you, dear,” she says, and it sounds meaningless, like she’s said it so many times today it’s just syllables.

It’s the third funeral of the day for Harry, and the only thing he hates more than the funerals themselves is the way they already seem to be bleeding into each other. Tears and eulogies and flashbulbs and people touching and asking and staring, and they deserve their own moment, not just another piece of the fallen fifty.

_Fifty._

Fifty people who died holding Hogwarts against Voldemort. Defending against a battle Harry dragged there in his wake, death dogging his footsteps. As always.

He should have been faster, smarter, more focused. Asked better questions while he had the chance. He should have done _something_ because there are fifty people who aren’t here anymore and their funerals and deaths and lives seem to be blurring into one giant tangle of grief and they deserve more.

Someone touches his arm, and he looks up to find Ginny standing next to him. She doesn’t look at him, just stands there.

Hannah is with her, and she lowers herself into the seat next to Mrs. Creevey, her body turned towards her.

“We don’t know you,” Hannah says, voice thick. “And maybe you feel like there was part of Colin you didn’t get to know. We’d like to tell you who he was to us.”

Mrs. Creevey nods, her husband next to her already choking back tears.

Harry looks up. While he’s been meeting Colin’s parents, the students have formed themselves into a circle around the grave.

“Would you say something?” Dennis asks Harry. “It would have meant a lot to him.”

Harry doesn’t want to. God, he doesn’t want to. But really, it’s the least he can do, right?

“Of course,” he says, but all he can think is that Colin deserved so much more.

More than a stilted speech from him.

The boy who lives while everyone else dies.

He finds himself looking at Ginny, and she just meets his gaze, nodding her head a bit like, _Get on with it, Potter. It matters and you know it._

Then she’s walking away, joining the circle with Hannah and Luna.

Everyone is looking expectantly at him.

He clears his throat. “I think I met Colin’s camera before I actually met Colin,” he says, and a few people laugh appreciatively. “Everything was so fresh and exciting to him, it was hard not to get swept up in it too. I think we all tend to forget sometimes, how amazing some of the things we daily take for granted are. Colin never forgot.” He glances at the grave. “He was so brave and dedicated and I was lucky to know him.”

He steps back into the circle next to Ron.

Nigel steps forward next, talking about late night studying, and working so hard to master defensive spells for the DA. How much being part of it meant to him.

Luna talks about how beautiful his aura was. Neville describes his dedication. The way he never gave up. Seamus has everyone laughing and weeping with stories of pranks and late night trips to the kitchens.

Dennis sits next to his parents, his face streaked with tears and smile wide and nearly blinding; Mr. and Mrs. Creevey sitting in a dazed sort of attention, hearing about their son’s life they never got to be a part of.

Harry looks away, and across from him stands Ginny. She has her arm wrapped around a weeping Hannah, but Ginny just stands with her, her face still, eyes staring straight ahead.

Eventually the stories die down, the group falling into contemplative silence.

There’s a strange sort of lingering expectancy though, and Harry is wondering if they are waiting for him to say something else when Ginny takes a few steps into the circle.

Every eye is on her, and it’s clear to Harry that they’ve been waiting to hear from her.

She stands there a moment, gathering her thoughts maybe. And then she starts to speak, her voice calm and even.

“Colin didn’t have to be there,” she says. “We all know that. He was away and safe. As safe as he could be. But he came back, because he was brave and wanted to help his friends and knew what was at stake. He came back because despite what they tried to tell us, Hogwarts was his too.”

She stops, looking down at her hands. When she looks back up, her face is set in determined lines.

“He died fighting for his right to his magic, to his wand. His right to study and learn. His right to _exist_.” She looks around the circle, like she wants to make certain everyone is listening. “We’re the ones who have to make sure that matters. For Colin. For all of them.”

She turns, stepping back into the circle.

“This is what he meant to us,” Hannah says, looking at the Creeveys.

Mr. Creevey stands, his wife’s hand clasped in his. “Thank you,” he says. He looks like he wants to say more, but all he can do is nod.

The students all file back to the seats behind the Creevey family. A priest steps forward, standing over the grave to finish the last ceremonies before the coffin is slowly lowered into the ground.

Harry winces as the first clump of dirt thuds hollowly on top of the coffin.

*     *     *

By the third day, Ginny thinks the funerals are beginning to feel like a ritual. A series of specific steps repeated over and over again until they almost cease to mean anything. Only the name changes, the location of the family plot.

In the morning she stands in a small cemetery, watching Andromeda Tonks bury her daughter and son-in-law right next to the still-fresh grave of her husband.

Molly holds little Teddy, letting Mrs. Tonks mourn her family in peace. Maybe even, Ginny supposes, mourn her sister Bellatrix. Her death, or even just what she became.

Ginny closes her eyes, feeling the heat and sting of that passing curse, remembering Bellatrix’s eyes wild with malice. A throbbing unstable energy and violence only held together by a tenuous bond of hatred.

In the end she came apart so quietly, as if she never existed.

Teddy screeches, jerking Ginny back to her surroundings.

The afternoon brings no relief, because it is finally Fred’s turn.

Ginny would rather be almost anywhere than standing here on this grassy hill. Elaborate cenotaphs and temples spill down the hill, culminating in two simple stones side by side – Gideon and Fabian. There is one other very small stone set in the ground with just a single year on it that none of them ever talk about.

There will never be any more Prewetts. Now just the Weasleys. They will be the ones to fill the remaining empty space, one by one. Starting with Fred.

They all line up, Charlie and Bill flanking George, then Ron and Ginny. She stands next to her mum, Arthur next to her, with Percy standing close to his side as if to make up for the distance before.

Behind them, Ginny is aware of Hermione and Harry standing with Fleur. Auntie Muriel sits in a large chair, her eyes drawn up and over the hill. On the other side of the grave stand Lee Jordan, Angelina Johnson, and Katie Bell. There are more people there, more and more and more.

A few rows back, Ginny sees Antonia, realizing with a jolt that Theodora is there next to her. They aren’t alone either. There’s Tilly, her face drawn and exhausted. Hestia and Flora, and Millicent. All of them. Each and every girl she shared The Parlor with, all lined up.

Ginny swallows hard against the lump rising in her throat.

The words and rituals begin, a droning sound in the distance, but Ginny concentrates on the feel of her mother’s arm under her hand, and counts the people who are here. Counts them over and over again, and always getting a different sum.

Ron breaks down halfway through, giant great gulping sobs that echo through the graveyard. Ginny freezes, knowing she should reach for him, touch his arm, but she thinks if she moves a single muscle everything will fall apart. Instead she firmly meets the gaze of people staring, forcing them to avert their eyes.

Bill wraps an arm around Ron, pulling him into his chest.

George just sits in his chair and stares straight ahead.

Ginny takes a deep breath, and starts counting again.

The ceremony ends before she gets an accurate count, people filing past them on their way out, and Ginny nods when someone says something to her. Nods and stands and breathes.

“I’ll stay with him,” Charlie says to Bill at one point. “You get them home.”

Bill nods, taking Molly’s arm. She looks pale and dazed, and Ginny has to look away.

“Gin?” he asks.

She nods, walking out with them.

At the gate, she looks back, and George is lying out on the grass parallel to the fresh grave, like laying claim to his spot.  

Despite the heat, Ginny shivers, hugging her arms across her chest.

*     *     *

Dinner after Fred’s funeral is simultaneously crowded and very quiet. It’s just the family, but they are all crammed in around the table. The Burrow itself feels like it is bursting at the seams, everyone packed into rooms like sardines, even as the twins’ room sits empty. George won’t go in there, and no one else can bring themselves to encroach.

Harry can’t help but feel like an intruder, like he’s staring in on a grief that he can’t really understand. He’s broken up about Fred, still keeps forgetting he’s gone, but he knows the pain of those around him is so much beyond that, George most of all.

Sometimes, if he stops long enough, he hears Ron’s anguished voice in his head.

_You don’t know how this feels! You have no family!_

He knows that was the Horcrux talking, but it doesn’t mean there isn’t a grain of truth in it.

He tried once to slip away, to leave them to their grief in peace, but Ron put the kibosh on that. “I _will_ drag your sorry arse back here, bloody hero or not,” he said, face still blotchy with tears.

So Harry stays, feeling like an interloper.

George has been quiet since he and Charlie finally returned. Quiet like he can’t stand to say anything knowing there won’t be anyone to finish his sentences, to up his verbal play. Harry supposes that’s why everyone is taken aback when George clears his throat, looks at Harry, and says, “Were you really dead?”

Everyone in the room seems to quietly recoil, torn between wanting to keep George talking and being discomforted by the question.

Harry freezes with his fork halfway to his mouth. He carefully lowers it back down to his plate. “I’m sorry?” he asks, certain he can’t have heard that right, but knowing he has.

“Did you die?” George repeats, voice rising in volume. “Or was that just some…lark?” He says it almost like Harry lay there and pretended to be dead just for jollies. Like listening to everyone’s horrified reactions had been _amusing_.

“Georgie,” Molly whispers, reaching for him.

“What?” George demands, shaking her off. “If he died, he’ll know! He can tell us what it felt like, what happened after. If—”  He seems to deflate then, his throat closing off.

It’s the desperation in George’s voice that manages to override Harry’s deep-seated need not to think about any of this. Because he honestly hadn’t considered what that knowledge might mean to the Weasleys. These people have done everything for him, giving up so much. Can’t he do this one small thing in return?

“I did,” he says, voice quiet.

The whole table seems to suck in a breath, every eye intent on him. He’s aware of Hermione grabbing Ron’s hand. He hasn’t even spoken to them about this, hasn’t spoken about any of it, too intent on forgetting as quickly as possible.

“You died?” George asks, recovering first.

Harry nods, keeping his attention on him. “I’m pretty sure.”

“But you, what, came back?” George asks, something accusational layered in there. _Why did you deserve to come back? Why you and not Fred?_

“It’s…complicated,” Harry says.

George’s expression hardens. “And now I suppose you’ll tell us you don’t remember anything.”

Harry swallows. “No. I remember pretty clearly.” No matter how much he wishes he didn’t. “Look, I don’t know what I can say to make anyone feel better. All I can tell you is that it didn’t hurt. And that…” He breaks off, not sure how to put it into words. He stares down at this plate, thinking of his parents, of Sirius and Remus and Dumbledore.

_We never left_ , his mother said.

“What?” a soft voice asks, and he looks up to find Ginny regarding him, her face pale, but a yearning there too, a need to know.

He stares back at her, somehow finding the words. “The people who die,” he says, “they don’t just…end. Especially people like Fred. They…never leave us.”

“That isn’t just some philosophical drivel?” George asks, but the sharp edge to his tone is gone, replaced with a painful sort of hunger.

Harry meets his eyes, wanting him to really understand. “No. It’s not.”

George looks thoughtfully down at the table.

It’s Charlie who frowns at Harry. “Who exactly did you--?”

“That’s enough,” Mrs. Weasley says, and Charlie looks sheepish, as if realizing he has let his curiosity push him too far.

It suddenly feels like too much to keep sitting in this warm, crowded kitchen. Harry pushes back from the table. “Excuse me,” he says.

He walks away from the table, leaving the Weasleys to their grief.

Ron follows him out onto the porch, Hermione only a few steps behind. They step up on either side of him.

They don’t ask. They don’t push. They just stand there with him as he stares out over the yard.


	5. Chapter 5

On Friday, it’s Ginny’s turn to line up with her sisters. They are all here again, just like they were for Fred’s funeral. She hadn’t expected that. Which was stupid on many levels.

The Parlor has never been a place. It’s a sisterhood. Hogwarts is just a small part of that. She would still do anything for these women, and they were there to show her that they would too.

It’s time for them to say goodbye to one of their sisters.

Caroline’s funeral is by far the most elaborate Ginny has been to, and she can’t help but think how annoyed Caroline would have been by it all.

_You should see what your Aunt is wearing_ , Ginny thinks. _It’s a nightmare_.

She imagines Caroline rolling her eyes and saying something cutting. _And what do you know about fashion, Weasley? Really, it could have more feathers. One can never have too many feathers._

Ginny bites down on her bottom lip, forcing herself to focus on the ceremony. The speeches. The rituals. Eventually everything draws to a close, the family filing out first.

Astoria follows next. Passing by Ginny, she comes to a stop.

“It should have been you,” she says, tears on her face.

On either side of her, Ginny can feel Tilly and Nicola recoiling at the hatred in Astoria’s voice.

Ginny just nods. “Perhaps,” she acknowledges. Only, war has never been about should haves. Just what is.

Stepping forward, she grips Astoria’s arms above the elbow. “If hating me makes this even a little bit easier for you, then I think you should.”

Astoria’s face hardens. Pulling her arms from Ginny’s grasp, she turns and walks away. Ginny glances at Hestia and Flora, giving them a small nod. They go after Astoria, walking on either side of her.

“Ginny,” Tilly says, touching her arm.

“You did the best you could,” Antonia says. But she hadn’t been there. She doesn’t know.

“Either way,” Ginny says, “it’s done, isn’t it?”

Tilly and Antonia share a look.

*     *     *

Harry pushes food around his plate with his fork, glancing down the table towards Ginny.

She went to the funeral of one of her housemates today. She told the rest of the family that she wanted to go alone. She’s been quiet, but that isn’t really anything new at this point. Quiet seems to be her default. She’s here at least, after spending so much time hiding in her room. But she rarely speaks.

He’s getting tired of seeing her in that same bloody blue dress, hair pulled back so tight it looks painful.

“Who’s up tomorrow?”

Harry tears his eyes away from Ginny, looking at Ron.

He’s been leaning towards gallows humor as the week drags on, as they trudge through funeral after funeral, eating their way through awkward teas and fresh grief and having no answers for anything.

Mrs. Weasley gives Ron a reproving look, but it’s Hermione who touches his hand, saying his name quietly.

“Professor Snape,” Harry says. It’s one of the last ones. He thinks it probably took Kingsley a while to convince people he even deserves one.

“I’m going,” Ginny announces, breaking her long silence.

Everyone looks at her.

Her chin lifts, just the tiniest bit. “I’m not saying anyone else has to go. But I’m going.”

“Then we’ll go too,” Bill says, reaching out and squeezing her hand.

Ginny nods at him before pulling her hand away and going back to eating.

*     *     *

They bury Severus Snape on the grounds of Hogwarts.

Ginny wasn’t sure how many people would even show up. It’s basically the remaining professors and the Weasleys. There are no Snapes, no family. Just a small collection of people who couldn’t honestly say they really knew him.

There are no planned ceremonies or elaborate eulogies. McGonagall stands in front of them, looking vaguely perplexed and discomforted. She rattles off a litany of his accomplishments, how long he taught at Hogwarts, his time here as a student.

It’s all impersonal and distant and lifeless.

“This is where he lived and where he died. It’s where he belongs,” McGonagall says, her lips pressing together.

Ginny wonders if she’s trying to justify it to them, or just herself.

It’s not surprising no one seems to know what to say. Who among them could honestly claim to have really known him?

Ginny thinks each of them only had pieces, bits and flecks, and no way to know which of them were real, which were lies. Just a pile of questions and a stone in the ground.

Harry stands, McGonagall looking up at him in surprise. “Could I say something?”

“Of course,” she says, taking her seat.

Harry walks up to stand in front of them, looking uncomfortable, but determined. “It’s not much of a secret that I had a difficult relationship with Professor Snape. But the fact is, he risked a lot. We wouldn’t have been able to do what we did without him.” He shrugs. “He was one of us.”

Peering over at the grave, Harry seems to pause, at a loss perhaps for anything else to add.

He glances at McGonagall. “That’s what I wanted to say.”

“Thank you, Potter,” she says. She turns to the gathered people. “We have some light refreshments up in the hall if you would like.”

Everyone gets to their feet, walking quietly back towards the castle.

Ginny doesn’t move.

She glances up at her parents. “Do you think I could…have a minute?”

Her parents nod.

“We’ll be up in the Great Hall when you’re ready,” Molly says, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

It’s only as she sits back in her chair that she realizes Harry is still standing by the gravestone. Hermione and Ron are talking quietly to him, and after a moment he nods. Ron and Hermione walk up towards the Castle with everyone else, leaving him on his own.

Harry has his hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders bowed and head ducked. She can’t even begin to fathom what he may be thinking about, standing at the grave of a man he hated. A man he owes everything to.

She remembers how it felt to hear Harry lay it all out for her, everything Snape did for the Order, just how deep his lies and subterfuge truly went. They were puzzle pieces clicking quietly into place. The only thing she still can’t be certain of is what he hoped to achieve, training her so carefully. Was that protection? Was he arming her with tools to survive? Or was it some narcissistic urge to remake her in his own image?

She stares at the grave and understands that she very well may never know. But maybe his intentions don’t matter.

Harry still hasn’t moved. She thinks of him sitting in the dark, watching the front walk while they all sleep.

Pushing to her feet, she crosses over to stand next to him.

“Hey,” she says.

He glances up at her, looking a little surprised. “Hey,” he says.

They both look back down at the grave.

“I still find it hard to completely forgive him,” Harry says after a while, like it somehow pains him.

“Do you need to?”

Harry frowns, turning his head towards her. “He wasn’t a Death Eater.”

She meets his gaze. “Wasn’t he? At least in the beginning?”

Harry winces, unable to argue with that.

Ginny didn’t need Legilimens to know there was hate in Snape that no amount of self-sacrifice and good decisions could ever completely erase. It seems dishonest to pretend otherwise, to idealize him after the fact.

He deserves to be remembered as he was. The good, the bad, the complicated, the confusing. All of it.

“He ended up on our side,” Harry stubbornly insists, and Ginny knows he’s always struggled with the grey areas. He’s been hurt by far more than just Death Eaters. He should know that there are all kinds of people who can do wrong.

A reckoning will come for all of them eventually.

She looks back over at the grave. “Sometimes it takes bad people to do good things.”

Harry’s attention is on her again, his gaze heavy against her skin. For some reason, she can’t bring herself to meet his eyes.

“He was heartless.” She pauses, thinking of all the things she learned about him. “Or rather just heartless enough to make him a very useful tool.” To Voldemort. To Dumbledore.

And Snape knew it, she thinks. Knew it and did it all anyway. She isn’t sure if that makes it better or worse.

Glancing at Harry out of the corner of her eye, Ginny can see that his face has gone hard, and she wonders if he ever considered himself that way—as a tool to be used. By this war, by this ministry, by the Order. But most of all by Dumbledore.

But never because he’s heartless.

“You don’t have to forgive him,” she says.

Harry’s lips press together. “He probably wouldn’t want me to anyway.”

Ginny isn’t so sure. But she’s beginning to realize she knew quite a different Snape.

“But I can still be thankful to him,” Harry says, his shoulders squaring. “For trying to save my mother, for protecting me even when I didn’t know he was. For risking what he did for the Order.”

Ginny nods. “Of course.”

She tucks her hands under her arms, listening to the rhythmic sound of the lake lapping against the shore in the distance.

“He protected me too,” she says. “As much as he was able. I can see that now.” Even if she doubts she’ll ever know why.

Harry leans into her, his shoulder barely brushing hers. “Then I’ll be thankful to him for that too.”

Ginny knows she should look up at him and smile, should feel something warm and comforting build in her chest, but all she has is this cold, empty well.

Becoming what Snape did made him hard and cruel. Maybe that’s her now too.

She just can’t be sure.

“Harry?”

They both look up to see Kingsley standing a short distance away. Next to her, Harry’s body stiffens.

“Do you mind if I have a word?” Kingsley asks.

He gives Ginny a pleasant smile, but one that makes it perfectly clear that she is not welcome in whatever conversation this is going to be.

Harry frowns, clearly not happy with something.

“Why don’t you go ahead,” she says to Harry. “I think I’ll take a few more minutes here, if you don’t mind.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asks, like he’s perfectly willing to blow off the Minister of Magic if she asks.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll see you later.” She nods at Kingsley. “Minister.”

He smiles back at her. “Ginny.”

For a moment, Harry doesn’t move, still stubbornly standing there, but after a barely audible sigh, he crosses over to stand next to Kingsley.

They walk up to the castle, Harry’s posture stiff as Kingsley leans in and says something to him that he clearly doesn’t want to hear. She watches them cross the lawn.

When they disappear up into the castle, she returns her attention to the simple stone set in the lawn. She reaches out and runs her fingers along the cool edge.

“Goodbye, sir,” she says. “I promise not to forget what you taught me.”

She owes him that at least.

She lingers a while longer, eventually turning for the castle. As she walks up the slope, her steps begin to slow. Slower and slower the closer she gets until she stops completely.

“Keep going,” she whispers to herself, thinking of her family in there. The people who need her. Need her to be stronger than this. But, Merlin, there is also this sharp, hot panic swelling in her chest, the feeling that the stones themselves are closing on her and she knows she can’t do it.

She can’t walk in there.

“It’s just a building,” she says, but Merlin, it is anything but.

When breathing starts to seem impossible, she turns her back on the castle, staring out down the path.

Maybe she can just walk back down to Hogsmeade. Wait for everyone there.

“Ginny?”

She doesn’t turn.

Bill comes around to stand in front of her. “You okay? Mum’s wondering where you went.”

“I don’t think I can,” she says, her voice hoarse.

“What?” he asks.

“Go in there.”

He glances back up at the castle.

“I just—” She shakes her head. “I can’t.”

“Hey,” Bill says, touching her arm. “You don’t have to.”

She nods, fighting to breathing normally.

“I’ll walk back to Hogsmeade with you,” he decides. “Let me just tell Mum and Dad.”

“Don’t tell them I’m…” She doesn’t know what she means. Don’t tell them how afraid she is? That she’s terrified of a _building_?

“Gin,” Bill says. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Please,” she says, hating the pleading in her voice.

“Okay. Okay,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

She tries to wait, but her feet start carrying her away and down the path. By the time Bill catches back up, she can almost breathe again.

She still can’t turn back and look.

*     *     *

Harry glances back to see Ginny standing by Snape’s tombstone.

Kingsley’s interruption irritates him on many levels, but mainly, this is the first time Ginny has spoken to him, _really_ spoken to him, since he got back.

“I’m sorry I can’t stay for the meal,” Kingsley says. “Things are still…complicated.”

“Right,” Harry says, pulling his attention back to the man walking next to him.

“I’d like to come to the Burrow tonight to speak with you though, if that would be all right,” he says.

They step into the shade of the entryway. Hermione and Ron are waiting for him at the entrance to the Great Hall, sharing a glance when they see him with Kingsley. They all knew he wouldn’t be able to avoid this forever.

“Sure,” Harry says.  

He’s a good man, Harry knows. Knows very well that he wants to change things. Harry just has a hard time trusting that it’s even possible. He isn’t the first Minister to come to him like this.

Kingsley gives him a bracing smile. “Thank you. I’ll see you tonight.”

He’s gone by the time Ron and Hermione get to him.

“It’s okay,” Harry reassures Hermione when it looks like she will press.

They all walk into the hall together.

Unlike most of the other funerals Harry attended, there is no wake, no endless hours of socializing and stories and tears. Just a quiet lunch in the still decimated castle.

Harry finds himself glancing back at the doorway from time to time, realizing he’s looking for Ginny.

“I’ll go check on her,” Bill says, getting to his feet.

It’s not long until Bill comes back in alone. “I’m going to take Ginny back,” he says.

“Is everything all right?” Mrs. Weasley asks.

“Yeah,” Bill says with a careless smile. “She’s just going to go visit her friend.”

Burke, more than likely, Harry thinks.

The endless lunch is finally wrapping up when Hagrid appears, crossing over to speak to McGonagall.

“They’ve caught sight of a giant in the Forest,” he says, sounding slightly out of breath.

“Very well,” McGonagall says, pushing to her feet. “I shall send a note to Minister Shacklebolt.”

Hagrid frowns. “No need to wait that long. We can take care of it.”

McGonagall presses her lips together. “We don’t have the manpower to go traipsing around the Forbidden Forest. There’s no telling who has taken refuge in there and we are not risking any more students. Until Kingsley decides it is priority enough to send Aurors to assist, we will let the centaurs handle their own justice.”

“But, Minerva,” Hagrid protests. “You know what the centaurs will do.”

Kill the giant, no doubt.

McGonagall lifts her chin. “I’ve made my decision, Hagrid.”

Hagrid doesn’t argue further, but looks crestfallen. Looking around, he sees Harry and Ron and Hermione, giving them a weak smile before heading back out of the hall.

Harry looks down at his mostly untouched lunch, and shoves to his feet.

“I’ll see you later,” Harry says to Ron and Hermione, not waiting to hear their response.

He hurries after Hagrid, catching up with him by the entrance.

“I’ll go with you,” Harry says.

“What?”

“Into the Forest,” he clarifies.

Hagrid looks at Harry with real relief. “Thank you, Harry.”

They cross the lawns, past the tent encampment still spilling down the hill.

On the edge of the Forest, Harry feels a trickle of cold sweat work its way down his neck, and has to wonder if partly he just wanted to prove that he could.

They walk out into the Forest.

*     *     *

Harry and Hagrid wander the Forest for close to three hours, all without any sign of the giant other than a smashed tree from time to time. Harry’s honest enough to admit that is probably a good thing.

By the time he makes it back to the Burrow, his nerves are stretched thin and he’s just _exhausted_.

Considering how late it is, Harry isn’t really surprised to find Kingsley already waiting for him in the kitchen.

“There you are,” Hermione hisses, pulling him inside.

“Hagrid needed help with something.”

“What?” Hermione says, voice nearly shrill, and he isn’t sure if that is because he was missing or because he made the Minister wait for him.

“Sorry,” Harry says, glancing at Kingsley.

“It’s fine,” he says, pushing to his feet. “Why don’t we…” He gestures towards the sitting room.

Harry crosses his arms over his chest. “Can we stay in here?”

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley glance at each other.

“We can go--” Mr. Weasley starts to offer.

Harry looks at him. “I’d really like it if you’d stay.” He glances at Ron and Hermione, and they both sit back down at the table.

Kingsley looks back at Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. “Of course.”

Harry sits down next to Ron.

“Things are under control enough now that I’d like you to come in to the Ministry to fill us in. Just a few people. Head of Magical Law Enforcement, Wizengamot Chief, a few Secretaries. Arthur will be there as well, as Head of Muggle Affairs.”

It’s one the first departments reorganized after Voldemort’s fall. The Muggle Registration Committee.

Harry’s worn by this long week, so many, many deaths. The injured and the people still looking to him for answers, and in some ways that’s almost worse. He’s done everything that has ever been asked of him, including dying. But he’s tired. And it’s beginning to feel like there isn’t really going to be an ending. Just…endless.

“Are you ordering?” he asks, voice just the tiniest bit belligerent.

“Harry—” Mr. Weasley starts to say in warning. As if to remind him of just who he’s talking to.

But Kingsley just raises his hand.

Fudge and Scrimgeour would have taken exception to being spoken to like that, by a boy no less. Then again, neither of them would have had this conversation in front of everyone. They would have put him in a small space to stand over him.

Harry’s done with adults trying to intimidate him into compliance.

Kingsley simply looks back at him and says, “I’m asking.”

Harry isn’t sure he believes that.

Kingsley must see that, because he smiles. “Dumbledore told us to trust you, and he was right. I haven’t forgotten that.”

Harry takes a breath, reminding himself that Kingsley has never done anything to deserve his skepticism. Still. Harry looks down at his knees. “Can I think about it?”

Kingsley nods, sitting back. “Of course. Just send an owl when you’ve decided.”

“Thank you, Minister,” Hermione says, clearly trying to soften the blow, break the tension.

He smiles at her. “Now I’ll leave you all to your meal.”

Mrs. Weasley touches his shoulder. “Why don’t you stay? There’s more than enough.”

He tries to demur.

“You should stay,” Harry says. “If you have time.”

Kingsley peers at him for a long moment. “Okay.”

Harry doesn’t know if he’s trying to test him or what, but Kingsley doesn’t push or press Harry further, instead talking with Arthur and Bill after he arrives.

Ginny appears for the meal too, looking wan. He frowns, wondering if something has happened with Burke. She barely looks up from her plate, doesn’t so much as look at Harry, and he’s beginning to think he imagined her standing next him in front of Snape’s grave.

Kingsley stands. “Thank you for a wonderful meal. I haven’t had time to sit down like that in a while.”

“Tobias Burke,” Harry finds himself saying. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Ginny’s head whip up.

Kingsley pauses. “What about him?”

“He’s being confined at St. Mungo’s.”

“Yes. He’s been identified as a Death Eater.”

“He isn’t,” Ginny says, voice fierce, the most emotional Harry’s heard it since he got back.

Kingsley glances at her, before returning his attention to Harry. “Things are still chaotic. A lot of people still don’t feel safe. We need to be careful.”

“I get that,” Harry says. “I really do. But it’s also important not to…make the same old mistakes. Don’t you think?”

This is the real test, Harry knows, thinking of Stan Shunpike. Is Kingsley really any different than his predecessors? _Can_ he be any different?

Kingsley regards him for a long moment. “And later just isn’t good enough?”

Harry shrugs. “More like…start as we mean to go on.”

He hasn’t come straight out and said his cooperation hinges on this matter, but he imagines it’s clear enough to Kingsley anyway.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

After Kingsley leaves, Bill turns to him. “You’ve turned into quite the politician, Harry.”

He doesn’t take that as a compliment.

*     *     *

“It’s a risk either way,” Hermione says, pacing in the small confines of Ron’s room. “Then again, he’s the _Minister_.”

They’ve been talking themselves in circles all day, trying to decide what exactly to share about their mission these last nine months. The whole thing is giving Harry a headache.

“Ah, to be back in a tent with just the three of us and no one to answer to,” Harry moans, rubbing at his temples.

Ron snorts. “And starving?”

Harry shrugs, lying back on the bed with his hands over his face.

They are quiet for a while before Ron blurts, “I think we need to tell Ginny.”

“What?” Hermione asks.

Harry peers up at Ron through his fingers. “Tell her what exactly?”

“About the Horcruxes,” Ron says.

Hermione frowns. “Because of the diary?”

Ron nods. “She deserves to know what that really was, don’t you think?”

Hermione and Harry share a look.

Ron pushes to his feet. “I couldn’t even handle a few weeks with the necklace. She dealt with the diary for _months_.”

“And it was a much more powerful object,” Hermione points out.

“What do you mean?” Ron says.

“Well, the diary had half of Voldemort’s soul in it. The rest of the objects contained smaller and smaller fractions of his remaining soul.”

Harry’s never really thought of it that way. They did give less and less of a fight. It also explains how he functioned for so many years with relatively few side effects—he’d barely had a sliver. Just enough for headaches and visions and parseltongue.

He wonders, for a moment, if he can still speak parseltongue, before deciding he’d probably rather not know. Maybe he’s too scared to find out that he still can.

“Blimey,” Ron breathes. “Now I’m _sure_ she deserves to know.”

Harry isn’t certain this information is such a gift, personally. If it were him, he’d rather never know. As it is, Ginny seems… Well, Harry doesn’t really know. She just doesn’t seem like herself.

She’s always been rather tightly buttoned up. Not that she doesn’t feel anything, he knows, just that she tends to keep it safely behind a calm surface. Except when she gets angry enough to let it out.

The Ginny of after the Battle of Hogwarts, as they’re starting to call it, is a completely different thing.

She doesn’t laugh. She rarely even smiles. When she does it is usually after a painfully long pause, as if she’s running through the implications of smiling before she allows herself to do it.

It’s not that he blames her for this, having some small idea of what living under the Death Eaters may have been like. But still, it’s disquieting. He has a hard time reconciling this new Ginny with the girl he thought he knew, the one who never hesitated to tell him when she thought he was wrong.

He misses that Ginny.

He’s not sure what it says about him that he misses Ginny getting angry with him.

At least angry would be _something_.

“If we’re making decisions about this, shouldn’t she have a say?”

“I suppose,” Hermione starts to say. Before she can finish, Ron pushes to his feet.

“Great. I’ll go get her,” Ron says. He’s out the door before either of them can think of anything to say.

Harry shares a look with Hermione. “Is this a good idea?”

Hermione spreads her hands wide. “I don’t know. But she’s his sister…”

The door opens again, and Harry sits up when Ginny follows Ron in, swinging his feet to the floor.

She looks around at them as Ron carefully closes the door behind her. “Well,” she says, “this doesn’t feel at all ominous.”

Ron seems a bit nervous now. “It’s about the diary. You know--” He breaks off as if he can’t quite bring himself to say Riddle’s name, but needs Ginny to know exactly what he’s talking about.

Ginny, if possible, looks even more expressionless than before. “Tom’s diary,” she says, darting a quick glance at Harry. He tries to look like Riddle’s name casually falling off her lips doesn’t bother him.

“Yes,” Ron says, sounding relieved. “It’s about that.”

“Okay,” she says, voice even. She crosses her arms over her chest, almost protectively.

“The thing is… I mean, the diary, it…” Ron stumbles, eventually looking imploringly at Hermione. Harry’s just glad he didn’t look at him.

Hermione sighs, glancing at Harry.

He nods. If Ron has it in his head to do this, it’s not like they can stop him.

“There is a dark object called a Horcrux,” Hermione explains. “Wherein the caster breaks their soul in half and instills an object with part of their soul.”

Ginny frowns. “To what purpose?”

“To make oneself indestructible. If the caster is killed, the other part of their soul survives, keeping them tethered to this world.”

“Immortality,” Ginny says.

Hermione nods. “Of a sort.”

“At what cost?” Ginny asks, and it feels, as always, like she is already five steps ahead of them.

Hermione hesitates, and Harry finds himself speaking. “The spell requires an act of murder.”

“Merlin,” Ginny breathes. “A life for a life. Makes a sick sort of sense.”

“When Riddle killed Myrtle with the basilisk,” Hermione says. “It allowed him to make the diary.”

Harry watches Ginny absorb that, a little like a stone skipping across the surface of a pond, the ripples quickly dissipating, but the stone lodging deep. “The diary was a Horcrux.”

“Yes,” Hermione confirms.

“It’s why he didn’t die when Harry was a baby,” Ginny says.

Hermione nods. “And why he still couldn’t be killed after he remade his body.”

Ginny frowns. “But Harry destroyed the diary.”

“He made more Horcruxes,” Ron says. “A lot more.”

She seems to pale a bit. “And that was what you were doing this whole time.”

“Yeah,” Ron says. “We were trying to find them and destroy them.”

Ginny’s breathing is a little uneven as she absorbs this, looking down at her hands like she’s working furiously through the ramifications. “How many were there?”

“Counting the diary?” Hermione says. “Six.”

Ginny looks at Harry, and he can tell she’s putting pieces together, every tiny clue. He wonders if she’s thinking of that moment out on the smoky field again too.

“Seven,” Harry finds himself saying.

He’s aware that Ron and Hermione are looking at him in shock, this being the first they’ve ever heard of a seventh Horcrux. Ginny simply stares back at him.

Harry forces himself to look away, taking in Ron’s confusion and Hermione’s dawning horror.

He nods. “I was the seventh Horcrux.”

Hermione’s eyes go to his scar. “When you were a baby, when he killed…” she tries to say.

“My mother,” Harry says. “He probably didn’t even mean to do it. But he had so little soul left at that point…”

“It’s why you went into the forest that day,” Ginny says, voice painfully even. “Why you let him kill you. Because while you lived, he couldn’t die.”

“What?” Ron says.

Harry shrugs. “I assumed Dumbledore considered it a better option than having one of you cut my head off with the Sword of Gryffindor.”

It’s a poorly timed joke, to judge from the way Hermione goes ashen.

“But you knew you wouldn’t really die,” Ron says, something a little desperate in his tone. “When you went to Voldemort.”

Ginny is still watching Harry, her eyes far too knowing. She understood then, Harry assumes, that he really was saying goodbye, that he had no intention of coming back that day he kissed her. “No.”

Hermione doesn’t look surprised so much as horribly sad. “Oh, Harry,” she says, her hands covering her face.

“How did you survive?” Ginny asks.

Harry’s hand goes to his arm, the place Wormtail cut him so many years before. “When Voldemort came back, he used my blood to create his body. Including the blood protection my mother gave me by sacrificing herself.”

“Meaning?” Ginny asks.

“Meaning that while Voldemort lived, I couldn’t die.” He frowns. “Or at least not stay dead.”

“So instead he destroyed a piece of his own soul—his own Horcrux.”

“Yes,” he says.

“And ultimately himself,” she says, shaking her head. “Tom, you fool.”  

They all stand in silence for a while, the twisted implications of just how many things had to happen in exactly the way they did for them to all be sitting here. For him to be sitting here.

Faintly, they hear Molly calling them from downstairs.

Ron looks up. “Must be dinner.”

Hermione follows Ron out, and then Ginny after them. But she comes to a stop, standing in the doorway for a moment before turning back to Harry.

“Have you decided yet?” she asks. “How much of this you’re going to tell the Ministry? That is what you’re trying to decide, right?”

“We can leave the diary out of it,” he says.

She shakes her head. “That’s the least of it really.”

He watches her for a long while. He thinks maybe Ron was right that telling her was the right thing. “What would you do?”

She lifts her eyes to his. “Me?”

He nods. “If it were your decision.”

She bites her lip, her eyes slipping distant as she thinks it through. “I suppose the fear is that if people know about Horcruxes, more of them may be made. That is should never be talked about at all because of the risk, because of the cost. But even as a secret, Tom still figured it out. And did keeping it a mystery just make him stronger?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “That’s the rub.”

“What would I do…” She shakes her head, pushing off the doorjamb. “It doesn’t matter.”

He frowns. “Why not?”

“You aren’t me, Harry. And we’re…very different.”

He pushes to his feet. “Are we?”

She looks up at him, and somehow it feels like the first time she’s really met his eye in a long time. He’s not sure he particularly likes what he sees there. “Harry,” she says.

“I’m scared what making the wrong decision may mean,” he says.

_Is this what I am to you?_ she once asked him. _Your secret keeper?_ And here he is again, unloading it all at her feet.

Her head tilts to the side. “What do your instincts tell you?”

Harry considers. “That Dumbledore kept a lot of secrets. Maybe a few too many.”

She nods. “Then maybe you should find someone you really trust and tell them.”

“I just did.”

She lowers her face so he can’t see her expression. “Someone with the power to actually do something about making sure this doesn’t happen again.”

“Kingsley,” Harry mutters.

She lifts one shoulder. “If you think you can trust him.”

And that right there is the crux of the problem. Can he trust Kingsley any more than he trusted any of his predecessors? He rubs at the back of his neck, feeling in many ways like he is back to square one.

Except not entirely, he thinks, looking up at Ginny.

“And you?” he asks.

She stiffens slightly, her expression, if possible, closing off further. “What about me?”

He searches her face for any clues. “Are you…okay? You know, with what we told you?”

“About the diary?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“It was a long time ago,” she says, which actually isn’t much of an answer.

“Ginny!” Molly calls up the stairs.

“I should go,” she says.

“Ginny,” he says, wanting her to stop.

She turns back to look at him, reaching out as if to touch his arm, stopping just short, her fingers curling back into a fist. “If it means anything at all, I trust you to make the right decision.”

She disappears down the stairs.

It means a lot.


	6. Chapter 6

In the days after the end of the funerals, Ginny tries to find some sort of pattern to organize her days.

She still wakes most mornings expecting to be in the castle, but she wakes. She gets up and gets dressed and helps her mum and visits Tobias and is useful. She writes letters and tries to help Neville settle the last few students. 

She _wakes_ and _does_ and thinks maybe she can actually survive this.

Harry and Ron and Hermione spend another day cloistered away, apparently debating what to tell Kingsley about the Horcruxes. Ginny doesn’t know what they ultimately decide, just that Harry goes into the Ministry one morning with Dad. He spends almost the entire day there.

At dinner that evening, Ginny watches him out of the corner of her eye. He looks worn and tired. Not too surprising considering she knows he still spends his nights down in the sitting room. She isn’t sure if Ron and Hermione have noticed. For all she knows, Harry is deliberately trying to give them some space.

Only he looks more than just tired. He’s noticeably wan. Like usual, he doesn’t eat much.

She considers that she’s put off saying something far too long.

“Harry?” Molly asks.

He looks up at her. “Yes?”

“Are you feeling all right, dear?”

He brushes off her concern with a weak smile. “Just tired, I think.”

“You look pretty rough, mate,” Ron says helpfully.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Thanks.” He looks back down at his plate, but doesn’t pick up his fork. “You know, maybe I’ll go up. Have a bit of a lie-down.”

Now Ron is frowning, because Harry actually admitting something like that is definitely not normal.

Harry pushes to his feet. For a moment, he seems to sway, reaching for the edge of the table.

“Harry?” Hermione says.

Ginny has never actually seen the blood drain out of someone’s face before, but that’s exactly what it looks like, Harry’s face turning almost gray, his eyes sort of glazing over and then he’s falling.

Ron scrambles up, making a grab for him before he hits the ground.

Everyone is up on their feet at once, chairs scraping loudly against the floor, voices raised in alarm.  

“Merlin,” Ron says, Harry clutched in his arms as he lowers him to the floor. “He’s burning up.”

Fleur kneels next to him, pressing the back of her hand to Harry’s forehead. “Definitely a fever.”

Ron looks around at them with wide eyes. “He was at the Ministry. Anyone could have…”

Ginny feels frozen by the possibilities. Is this an attack? Has he been poisoned?

“Should we take him to hospital?” Bill asks.

“He’s safest here,” Arthur decides. “Send for Pomfrey.”

Molly touches Ron’s shoulder. “Let’s get him to bed.”

Charlie and Ron lift Harry, carrying him up the stairs. Hermione and Molly and Fleur follow them up.

Ginny sits back down, her hands clutched in her lap.

“He’ll be fine,” her dad says.

Ginny forces a smile on her face. “Of course.”

“I still think I might check the wards,” he says. “Just to be safe. Percy?”

Percy nods, getting to his feet and following Arthur out of the kitchen.

Without a word, George wanders off to the sitting room as if he’s uninterested. And then it’s just Ginny and the abandoned meal.

Ron and Hermione aren’t gone long, both looking annoyed and worried as they walk into the kitchen.

“Mum kicked us out,” Ron reports. “Said we were getting in the way.”

Ginny can only imagine.

Ron glances out the window. “Any sign of Pomfrey yet?”

“It’s only been a few minutes,” Hermione says, sitting down next to Ginny.

And so they settle in to wait.

It reminds Ginny far too much of sitting in the hall when Ron was poisoned. Only this time it’s Ron spinning theories, each more ridiculous than the last.

“We shouldn’t have let him go alone,” he’s saying. “Anyone could have--”

“Ron,” Ginny finally snaps, unable to bear it any longer.

He sits down next to Hermione with a thump. Hermione takes his hand in hers, her own face pale and set.

Only the silence is almost worse.

Someone knocks at the door.

They all stand, but Ron gets there first.

Pomfrey walks in, looking around. “Oh, you three. I suppose I should just be thankful you all seem to be on your feet and in one piece even if Potter can’t manage it for more than a fortnight.”

Hermione smiles with real relief. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“I don’t usually do housecalls,” Pomfrey says, lips pressing together.

It may be Ron’s paranoia rubbing off, but it occurs to Ginny that this would be a great way to get access to the otherwise nearly unreachable Harry Potter.

She puts a hand on Pomfrey’s arm as she passes. “Yes, well,” she says, voice light even as her fingers are firm on her arm. Her other hand curls around her wand in her pocket. “You took such good care of me with my broken ankle.”

Pomfrey glances down at her hand on her arm. “What in the world are you talking about?” she says, voice brisk with annoyance, but her eyes sparkling knowingly. “It was your collarbone, and you barely let me care for you at all, stubborn child.”

“Oh,” Ginny says, fingers loosening. “I guess you’re right.”

“I am not so old to have forgotten that,” Pomfrey says. “Now may I see my patient?”

Ginny drops her hand from Pomfrey’s arm. “Of course.”

She turns back to find Hermione and Ron regarding her.

“What?” Ginny says. “I’m hardly the only person who thought it.”

She sits back down and waits.

She took it for granted, that he’s here now. That they’re safe. She should have known better.

No one is ever safe.

*     *     *

“You fainted,” Ron takes great glee in telling Harry. “Just went down like a delicate flower, right there in the kitchen.” He leans back in his chair, hand to his forehead as if swooning.

Harry covers his face with a groan. Felled by something even more insidious than Voldemort: the common cold.

He thinks Fred and George will never let him live it down, only then he remembers.

“Ronald,” Hermione says.

Ron ignores the chastising edge in her voice, giving her a cheeky smile.

She rolls her eyes and goes back to fussing with Harry’s covers. “Pomfrey said you’re malnourished and sleep-deprived. Long-term stress is almost as bad. Not to mention what happened…during the battle. Your body just kept going and going, but now that you’re safe…”

“It’s just given up,” Harry surmises.

“Just more proof, I suppose,” Ron says, and Harry can see perfectly well that he’s just as worried under his bluster.

“Of what?” Harry asks, giving him an arch look.

“That you really are mortal.”

Harry huffs. “Lucky me.”

The entire Weasley clan helps enforce Pomfrey’s orders for a full week of bed rest. Harry would probably find it unbearable if not for the fact that he sleeps through most of it.

Actually _sleeps_. Meaning more than two or three hour bursts here and there inevitably interrupted by not so much nightmares as anxiety. No more nights out in the sitting room, his eyes on the road. That would worry him if he weren’t so exhausted.

The fever and the aching body are annoying, but the lingering black exhaustion, the way he sleeps for hours and hours and wakes slowly, naturally in a way he’d almost forgotten, almost makes it worth it.

When he isn’t asleep he’s being plied with heavy trays of food by Mrs. Weasley.

“Call me Molly, dear,” she insists. “You’re a grown man. And I think we’ve know each other long enough now, don’t you think?”

That warms him in places he’s a little embarrassed to admit.

He’s too sick at first to think about the fact that he is clearly staying in Bill’s room. With so many people here, it feel ridiculous that Harry should have a room all to himself.

When he mentions it, Ron just laughs. “Well, we weren’t very well going to lug your lanky arse up five flights of stairs. And wait on your hand and foot, three meals a day. Plus Mum says you need your rest, not lying on the floor like a vagabond.”

Harry frowns. “But where are Bill and Fleur sleeping?”

“They went back to Shell Cottage.”

“What?”

Ron shrugs. “Fleur seemed ready to go home. Bill too.”

Harry still can’t help but feel guilty.

“Course, it meant Hermione had to move in with Ginny,” he says, ears getting a bit red.

Harry’s honestly surprised no one said anything earlier about their sleeping arrangements.

“Now I’ve got Perce in with me.” He sighs dramatically. “The things I do for your health.”

“I could sleep on the couch,” Harry points out.

Ron rolls his eyes. “Don’t be thick. Now eat your stew or I’m telling Mum.”

“Tyrant,” Harry mutters, but picks up his spoon.

Near the middle of the week, he looks up as someone knocks on his door. Ginny pokes her head in. It’s the first he’s seen of her. Of course, he’s been asleep a lot, so that’s not a huge surprise.

“Hungry?” she asks.

“Do I have a choice?” he asks, because he may not be fighting being stuck in bed, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be a bit grumpy about it.

Ginny seems unfazed. “Not really.” She lays a tray across his lap.

That’s what he thought.

“Fair warning,” she says as he picks up his spoon. “Ron made it.”

Harry gives her a look. “As if being sick isn’t bad enough.”

Her lips twitch just the tiniest bit, and it feels like a much bigger victory than it probably is.

He carefully takes a bite of the soup, bracing himself. It’s not as good as Molly’s cooking, but it’s still a far cry from the slop they’d been eating the last year. “It’s actually not bad.”

“Well, there’s a surprise,” Ginny says.

Instead of leaving, she sort of flits around the space, picking up things, folding things. None of which really needs to be done.

“You gave us quite a scare there, Potter,” she says with her back to him.

He grimaces. “Yeah. Sorry.”

After a moment of hesitation she sits in the chair by his bed. Well, perches, more like it--like she’s a moment away from fleeing. He eyes her over his soup.

“I went in to the Ministry yesterday,” she says.  

“You did?”

She nods. “Tobias was finally well enough to give a statement.”

“Oh,” he says. “How did it go?”

“As well as could be expected,” she says. “They’ve cleared him. Didn’t exactly apologize for it, but at least he got to go home.”

“Good,” Harry says. He drags the spoon through the soup, tapping it against the bowl. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.”

She gives him a ghost of a smile. “Going to throw your weight around some more?”

He shrugs. “If I had to.”

She leans forward. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

She gives him a look like he’s being thick. “For what you did for Tobias.”

For some reason, he really doesn’t want her gratitude. “I meant it. I don’t want everything to just go back the way it was. The way it was last time.”

“Still,” she presses. “I know you didn’t have to do that.”

Which is true. But there’s also the other inescapable fact.

He gives her a fleeting smile. “I know he’s important to you.”

Ginny is a quiet for a bit, one of her hands pressing flat against her knee. “He is important to me,” she says. “He’s a very good friend.”

There’s just enough emphasis in her voice for him to meet her eyes.

She holds his gaze a beat before looking away. “So, on a scale of one to, say, listening to Binns, how bored are you?”

“I wouldn’t say quite as bored as _that_.”

“Well, then. How about a round of chess?”

“Yeah?” he asks, looking forward to the prospect of doing anything other than staring at these walls.

“Once all the soup is gone.”

Harry rolls his eyes at the mollycoddling, but does as he’s told.

She takes the plates back downstairs, reappearing with an old battered set of wizard’s chess. She sets the board up on the small lap tray.

He’s never played with her before, so he doesn’t really know what to expect. He imagines she’s played with Ron over the years, so she’s probably pretty good.

He gestures for her to go first, and she lifts an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t pass up the advantage. The first few moves happen in silence, Ginny’s eyes intent on the board.

Some of the pieces are rather old and lethargic and need a little extra prodding to get them moving. Harry reaches for his pawn, but right before he moves it, Ginny makes a small sound, like she’s sucking in a breath. He glances up at her and she immediately schools her expression.

“What?” he says.

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

He frowns, hand lifting from the pawn. It takes him a while to decide what to do, eventually moving to a different piece.

Ginny nods as if to herself and intently studies the board. Harry watches her, smiling a bit when she rather impatiently brushes a strand of hair out of her face. The bruise by her mouth is finally fading, he notices.

“Ginny,” he says.

She prods her rook to move before glancing up. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for doing this,” he says. “Keeping me company.”

“Of course,” she says, voice soft.

“I know you probably have other things to do,” he says, reaching for his knight.

“Well,” Ginny says. “We’ll see how thankful you still are in two more moves.”

Harry frowns, ordering his knight to a different spot. It doesn’t make much of a difference, because two moves later, her knight wallops one of his, the piece flying off the board.

It bounces off Harry’s chest, coming to a rest on the bedding. They both reach for it, their fingers bumping up against each other.

Neither of them pull back away, and Harry wonders what she would do if he tried to hold her hand.

The door to the room pushes open, both of them jerking back away from each other.

Ron stands in the doorway, staring at them. “A-ha!” he says, pointing an accusatory finger in their direction.

“What?” Harry says, almost defensively.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he says. Only he isn’t looking at Harry.

Ginny lifts her chin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Taking advantage of an invalid. I thought that was beneath even you, Ginny Weasley,” Ron chides.

She rolls her eyes. “Harry is perfectly capable of taking care of himself.”

Harry just looks back and forth between them, trying to pretend he has any idea what is going on.

Ron crosses over to the foot of the bed, finally looking at Harry. “No one will play with her, you know. Because of her sneaky mind games. Manipulating you into making mistakes without you even realizing.”

Harry frowns. “Wait. What?”

Ginny doesn’t deny it, crossing her arms over her chest. “At least Harry doesn’t pretend to fall asleep just to get out of losing to me.”  

Harry frowns down at the board. “I’m not losing,” he says.

Ron snorts, stepping forward and leaning over the board. “All she has to do is convince you to move your bishop and she has you in four.”

“That’s not true,” Harry says, but he’s feeling less certain by the moment. He _had_ been considering his bishop.

“It may be true,” Ginny admits.

Harry looks up at her with wide eyes.

She just shrugs a shoulder.

Against his will, Harry finds himself smiling at her. “And here I thought you were just keeping me company.”

“Nothing says I can’t do both,” she says, and for a moment, she’s smiling too, Harry catching just the edge of it before she leans down to pick up the piece that’s tumbled forgotten to the floor.  

“Okay,” Ron says, shooing Ginny out of the chair next to the bed. “Budge over. Harry deserves a real match.”

Ginny rolls her eyes but doesn’t resist. To Harry’s relief, she doesn’t leave, instead settling on the end on the bed, her legs crossed up under her.

“I’m on Harry’s team,” she says.

“Me against both of you?” Ron asks. “Finally, a real challenge.”

“I think I’m offended,” Harry says, looking at Ginny.

Her eyes narrow. “Let’s destroy him.”

Harry lets out a laugh. “I think you’re doomed, mate,” he says to Ron.

Harry dozes off halfway through the game, but Ginny assures him that they definitely won.

He believes it.

*     *     *

Once Harry is declared healthy enough, or rather once Molly decides he is, he returns to the Ministry for his interviews. Hermione and Ron go with him, and despite various officials’ attempts to separate them in some weird attempt to corroborate their ‘stories,’ they remain stubbornly united.

Not that they are wrong to be skeptical, really. In the end, Harry keeps back far more than he reveals. Kingsley and Harry agreed between them not to make the Horcruxes public knowledge. The only other person informed is Robards.

Harry tries to like the man, but there is something in his hooded gaze as he observes Harry that makes him feel like he’s being judged and falling far short.

But sitting there, listening to the tenor of the official’s questions… Whatever euphoria may have existed in the aftermath of the battle seems to have dissipated. Almost as if three weeks for respect of funerals and mourning seems to be all the Ministry is willing to give before they get back up to their old tricks.

Harry has Dumbledore’s memories floating around his mind. Sons and fathers suspecting each other, tortured men turning on anyone to save themselves. Barty Crouch Senior’s spiral into cruelty and paranoia.

Once again the Ministry wants answers, but only the answers they want to hear. Harry refuses to give them that. So in the end, they decide to find the answers they want, any way they can. And history is all set to repeat itself.

Harry keeps his mouth shut the entire way back to the Burrow, his jaw clenched.

He comes to a stop on the front path, feeling completely unequal to going into the house, to answering even one more question.

Ron looks back at him. “Harry?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not fit for company.”

Hermione looks like she may protest, but Ron puts a hand on her arm. “Just give him some room.”

Harry shoots him a grateful look.

Turning away from the Burrow, he walks towards the pond, the evening sunlight almost blinding as it glitters off the surface. By the time he reaches the shore, the summer heat has sunk into his skin, his formal Ministry attire feeling like it’s choking him. He tugs off his robes, letting them fall to the dirt, followed by his tie and his shoes and his socks. He feels his body buzzing with suppressed anger, his fingers twitching with the urge to just _do_ _something_. Kicking at a tuft of grass, he stubs his toe on a stone, biting back a curse.

Leaning down to pick up the offending piece of rock, he tightens his hand around it, the jagged edges biting into his palm.

He chucks it into the water, finding something elementally satisfying in the plunk and splash, a bird lifting up from the water with a shrill sound of protest. Rolling up his sleeves, he ducks down to find another stone. And then he’s just throwing and throwing, some vague idea of flinging one hard enough to reach the other shore blooming in his mind. He throws and throws until he starts having a harder time finding stones and his shoulder starts to protest.

He stops, breath a bit ragged. It’s probably the most energy he’s spent since his illness, and it still doesn’t feel like enough.

“Harry?”

He turns to find Ginny standing near a tree watching him, her hand lifted to shade her eyes from the lowering sun. She has her hair in a long braid trailing over her shoulder, wearing a loose cotton shirt over a pair of shorts.

He opens his mouth to tell her he just wants to be left alone, but feels his desire for solitude completely dissolve. Not the anger though; that still seems to be buzzing right under his skin just where he left it. It feels, in some ways, like this could be that day in Grimmauld Place so many years before.

Turning back to the pond, he wipes his face on his sleeve and takes a few breaths. When he trusts himself to, he walks over towards Ginny, walking a bit past her into the cool shade. He sits at the base of one of the trees, resting his forearms on his knees.

She is watching him intently, not like she’s scared of him as much as trying to gauge his mood. “Can I?” she asks, gesturing at the spot next to him.

He nods.

She settles next to him, not close enough to touch, but close enough that he feels hyper-aware of her. He tries to think of something to say, but he’s still roiling with so much anger that he’s a little frightened he won’t be able to control it if he opens his mouth, so he just sits and listens to her breathing and that’s enough, maybe.

She surprises him by pulling out a slim metal flask and offering it to him. He lifts an eyebrow in question. He has a feeling it isn’t pumpkin juice.

She shrugs. “I know a girl.”

The breadth and width of people Ginny knows never ceases to amaze him. He takes the flask, pouring a small amount of liquid in his mouth. He isn’t sure what to expect, the burn and smoke of fire whiskey or the clinging sweetness of mead, but instead it’s crisp and clear with the slightest herbal edge to it that seems to settle warm and loose in his body.

Ginny gives him a knowing look, and he lets himself take a second, slightly larger sip.

“That’s good,” he says.

She takes the flask back from him, taking a sip herself. “I’ll be sure to let her know you think so.”

He thinks she’s probably mocking him somehow, but doesn’t really care.

“They’re going to have formal public trials,” he says, as if the liquid has freed up the knot of anger around his throat too.

Ginny stares out at the pond for a while before nodding. “Who?”

Harry huffs without humor. “Everyone.”

Ginny looks unimpressed by the hyperbole, and he feels like a melodramatic fool.

“The Carrows. The Knotts. Thicknesse. Umbridge.” He pauses. “The Malfoys.”

“I see,” she says, and as always he thinks she does.

“It’ll be an utter circus. And the worst part is, they don’t really care about the truth. They want a nice easy story and people to blame as long as it isn’t them.”

“To give themselves the illusion that they can actually control anything,” Ginny says. “Whatever comfort that may be.”

He considers that for a long moment, taking another sip off the flask and looking up at the leaves overhead. “Sometimes it feels like…nothing ever changes.”

Ginny pulls one knee into her chest, resting her chin on it. “Some things do.”

“Do they?”

She turns her head to look at him. “Usually just not the right things.”

He can’t help but think of Fred then, of Teddy. “Yeah,” he says, lifting up the flask again.

They sit for a while, occasionally passing the flask between them.

“She saved my life,” he says.

“Who?”

“Narcissa Malfoy.” He pauses, turning the flask around in his hands, his thumb rubbing across the ornate T carved into the surface. “After I…came back. He asked her to check if I was dead. She told him I was.”

Ginny is very still next to him, and he is hyper-aware of how much each of their stories are still untold. How not so long ago he charged across a smoky field and kissed her with every intention of dying right after and still doesn’t have any idea what that means. If it means anything.

He pushes the flask back into her hand, his fingers brushing hers. She takes a breath, lifting the flask up to her mouth. He wonders if she brought it as much for herself as for him, knowing this conversation would be full of landmines.

He looks down at his feet. “I know she didn’t do it to save me. She couldn’t have cared less about me. She was trying to save Draco.” He still remembers the feel of her breath on his face, the dirt and rocks and sticks under his body. “It certainly doesn’t change what they’ve done. It just…” He breaks off, having a hard time explaining why these trials bother him so much.

“Makes them seem more human?” Ginny says.

He blows out a breath. “Yeah. I guess so.”

She passes the flask back to him. “You called him Draco.”

Harry grimaces. “He saved me too, in his own way. Or he at least failed to turn me over. If that counts.” He isn’t sure if it does.

“The Malfoys didn’t do so well under Tom,” she says. “I imagine Draco realized you were his only hope.”

Harry laughs without humor. “That must have killed him.”

Ginny gives him a tight smile. “I imagine it still does.”

He frowns down at his feet, scuffing his toe in the dirt. “I’m not saying they don’t deserve punishment, that there shouldn’t be repercussions or anything. I just…” He thinks of Sirius’ haunted face, of Hagrid’s utter horror when they took him to Azkaban. The way he was never quite the same again. “I’m not sure they deserve to rot in Azkaban just so the Ministry can prove some sort of point.”

“Then don’t let them,” Ginny says like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like he actually has the power to do anything about it. He doesn’t know if it looks that simple to her or if she just has that much faith in him.

Harry turns to look at her straight on, and after a moment she lifts her eyes to his. They sit there for a long electric moment. Sitting out here, he can’t ignore the fact that being around her is one of the only times all of this feels bearable.

He isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol or being this close to her or just his bravery finally kicking in, but he reaches out and brushes a strand of her hair back from her face.

“Harry,” she says, barely a whisper.

“I missed you,” he says, the words seeming to bubble up by themselves. “Sometimes I would take out the map just to…know you existed.”

She isn’t looking at him anymore, her eyes trained somewhere near his shoulder, but her hand hesitantly reaches out to brush his sleeve, fingers warm through the fabric.

Shifting his hand, he lets it cradle her cheek.

She lets out an unsteady breath, but doesn’t pull away, so Harry leans in towards her. Just as he gets close enough to kiss her she tenses, her fingers squeezing his arm.

She turns her face from him, her breathing quick and startled, like she can’t quite catch her breath.

“Ginny?” he asks.

“I’m sorry,” she says, hand now pushing at his chest. “I’m sorry.”

He leans back, giving her space, but she’s already scrambling to her feet.

“Ginny,” he says, wondering what he did wrong. He gets up too. “What—”

“I’m sorry,” she says again.

Then she is walking away, steps quick and stumbling as if she’s trying not to run.

He stands there, watching her until she disappears into the house, feeling stung and confused and vaguely embarrassed.

It’s only when his hand tightens around the flask that he realizes he’s still holding it. For a moment, he’s tempted to chuck it into the pond.

Instead, he sits back down and finishes it off as he watches the sun sink down behind the pond.

It doesn’t help.  

*     *     *

Everything smells of smoke.

It feels like it’s lingering in her hair, her clothes. But even after Ginny takes a long shower, washes her hair three times, it still singes her nose, following her wherever she goes.

She can’t escape it.

Because there isn’t any bloody smoke. She _knows_ that.

It’s stupid and ridiculous, and she needs to be better than this. Better than falling apart because someone wants to kiss her. Because _she_ wants to kiss someone.

Everything spins a bit again, and she climbs out of bed. She’s embarrassed to have lost control like that. She can’t let it happen again.

Sitting down on her window seat, she crosses her legs under her and concentrates on finding some semblance of focus.

She spends time reassessing her barriers, her careful walls, making sure everything is in place. Firm. Solid. Untouchable.

_No one is untouchable._

When she goes downstairs for breakfast, she braces herself to face Harry. Tells herself she can handle this.

He isn’t there.

She’s flooded with relief, and that just makes her feel worse.

“Good morning,” Hermione says from where she sits with Ron.

“Hey,” she says, moving over the stove and getting herself a bowl of porridge. She looks down at it, and it makes her think of that first grey morning at Hogwarts.

She closes her eyes, sucking in a breath. _Focus_.

“Something came for you in the post,” Hermione says.

Ginny opens her eyes, turning for the table. “Yeah?” she asks, thankful for something to distract her. Probably from Hannah or Nicola.

Hermione hands her the letter as she sits at the table next to Ron. She glances at it without much curiosity until she sees the address, written in a familiar hand. But one she hasn’t seen for almost a year.

Ginny’s entire chest seems to swell with pressure.

“Who is it from?” Ron asks, leaning into her to peer at it.

“Smita,” Ginny says, the word a little hard to get out.

Hermione looks up with interest. “Is this the first you’ve heard from her?”

She nods, the parchment crinkling slightly as she grips it.

“That’s good then,” Ron says, leaning across the table to swipe a bit of bacon from Hermione’s plate. He pops it in his mouth. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Of course,” Ginny says. That’s what one does with letters, right?

She very carefully slides her finger under the seal, the wax cracking and splitting.

For a moment the words seem to swim before finally settling into focus.

_Dear Ginny-_

And then she is reading and reading and absorbing each word. _We are all fine. I’m sorry I couldn’t risk writing sooner._

“She’s okay,” Ginny says in a rush, feeling almost giddy. “She and her family are fine. They’ve been staying with distant relatives of a friend. Some place called Tawang.”

Hermione frowns. “Near the Himalayas, I think, right?”

Ginny shrugs. She can look that up later. First there are more words. She keeps reading and reading, the giddiness settling into something heavier.   

“When’s she coming back?” Ron asks.

Ginny finishes reading the letter, feeling everything slip dangerously.

_Love, Smita_

“She isn’t.”

“What?” Hermione asks.

Ginny tries to stay very, very still. “Apparently her mum has a new position. And Smita is one year into a really good four-year Healer program. She’s going to stay to finish it.”

Folding the letter, she carefully slips it back into the envelope like it isn’t taking everything she has just to keep breathing.

She pushes to her feet. “It’s for the best, I suppose.”

Isn’t it?

“She’s your closest friend,” Ron sputters. “How can you say that?”

Ginny clenches her jaw, wills the swell of emotion trying to choke her back down, down, down. Merlin, where is her discipline?

“Because you can’t always go back,” she bites out. “Sometimes you just have to keep going forward. Even if it means leaving things behind.”

She turns, intending to retreat to the safety of her room, and Harry is standing in the doorway listening.

He looks back at her, and she can’t read his expression, too busy feeling it all rising up again, the choking smoke and the panic.

_Bloody hero._

“That’s awfully unfeeling of you,” Ron says somewhere behind her.

She can’t help but flinch. She looks back over her shoulder, something vicious and unbearable flooding her chest. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you know _anything_ about what I’m feeling, Ron,” she says, voice so hard and cold she barely recognizes it as her own.

Lowering her face, she turns for the stairs, Harry stepping out of her way without a word.

She runs up them, not slowing down until she has her door closed behind her, leaning back against it breathing hard, letter still clasped in her hand.

*     *     *

That afternoon, she Floos over to Tobias’s house.

It’s not quite as large as Auntie Muriel’s but has that same hushed, heavy feel to it, like the walls themselves would very much like to scream with everything left unsaid. She hates the thought of him being here, day after day.

The House Elf greets her, leading her up to Tobias’s room.

“Master Tobias,” the elf says after opening the door to his room. “You’ve a visitor.”

Tobias is sitting at his desk, book open in front of him. He turns his head to look at her. “Hey, Gin.”  

“Hi,” she says, crossing over and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’re looking well.”

He lifts an eyebrow at her. “Am I?”

“Of course,” she says, not quite meeting his eye. “What are you reading?”

He snorts. “No need to tiptoe about, Ginevra,” he says. “I got an owl too.”

She sits down on the edge of his bed with a thump.

“You can’t be surprised,” he says.

“No,” she admits. But just because she wasn’t blindsided doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Even if it doesn’t have any right to.

Smita has done absolutely nothing wrong.

She looks at Tobias, trying to read something behind his bland expression. If he feels betrayed or abandoned.

She leans forward, touching the edge of his chair. “If she knew…”

Tobias cuts her off. “It wouldn’t change anything,” he says.

“You don’t know that.”

He lets out a derisive snort. “This isn’t a fairytale. She doesn’t come back and kiss me and my sodding leg grows back.”

Ginny feels that hit somewhere very, very deep. “No,” she says. “I suppose it isn’t.”

She focuses on not letting her thoughts spiral, watching Tobias’s fingers as they absently play with the pages of the book.

He sits back with a sigh. “There’s something else.”

“What?” she asks, refocusing on him. How can there possibly be more?

“My parent’s are taking me to the continent,” he says. “Day after tomorrow. We’re all going. Apparently there’s some wizard in Prague who makes the best prostheses in the world. Supposed to feel like the real thing. Better, even.”

Ginny feels the information hit her like a physical curse.

He’s leaving. Maybe it will be good for him, the logical part of her brain reminds her, but she didn’t even realize until this moment how much she’s been depending on him. Visiting him, making sure his name was cleared, keeping his spirits up, smuggling him books. How much she’s been using that to fill up the hours of her days. It’s been the one thing in her life that feels doable.

_Don’t go_ , she wants to say.

“Gin,” he says.

“I’m fine,” she lies, the words coming before the thought.

“You’re not,” he says, finally, finally calling her bluff. “You’re hell and gone from fine.”

Her hands clench. “I’m _going_ to be fine.” She can handle this.

He lets out a huff, shaking his head, his expression worn and cynical. “You can’t plan or strategize your way out of this one.” He takes both of her hands in his, fingers firm and inescapable. “It’s never going to be anything other than a giant mess, and you know it.”

She can’t breathe.

“Now give me a bloody hug goodbye, will you?”

She leans into him, biting down on the inside of her lip until she tastes metal.


	7. Chapter 7

In the kitchen, Hermione is helping their mum with restocking the family potion supply.

“Could you fetch me the Diluted Bundimun please, dear?” Molly asks Hermione.

“Oh, yes. Of course, Mrs. Weasley,” she says, scurrying back into the still room for the jar.

Ginny watches the two of them, her brow furrowed. Both of them have been scrupulously polite to each other all evening. And Hermione seems to be bending over backwards to be helpful.

“What is that?” Ginny asks Ron, who is currently sitting across the table from her.

His ears go red. “Uh. Mum may have, um, walked in on us having a bit of a snog?”

Ginny doesn’t know whether to laugh or wince. “That must have been fun.”

“Not quite the word I would use for it.”

“She didn’t yell?”

Ron shakes his head. “No,” he says miserably. “It’s just been like this.”

A horrible thought occurs to Ginny about exactly what kind of potions they may be working on together. “She didn’t try to have the talk did she?”

He drops his head to the table with a groan.

“ _Merlin_ ,” Ginny says, patting him sympathetically on the shoulder.

“I don’t think Hermione is ever going to look me in the eye again.” 

She snorts. “Maybe that was Mum’s evil plan all along.”

“Ron?” Molly calls out.

He lifts his head. “Yes, Mum?” he asks, just as painfully polite as Hermione.

“Is Harry still at Hogwarts?”

“Yeah,” Ron confirms, looking relieved for the change in topic. “He said there was one last thing he needed to finish.”

“He’s going to work himself back into the sickbed,” she frets.

“Well,” Ron says. “You know Harry. No talking him out of being helpful.”

Ginny feels a pang of guilt, knowing it’s probably something else keeping him late at Hogwarts. She hasn’t had a moment to speak to him, has barely even seen him the last couple days. Honestly, part of her doesn’t mind. Even _looking_ at him raises this unbearable pressure in her chest, like a wave that threatens to crash over her.

She isn’t stupid. She knows she’s hurt him, even though that’s the last thing she ever intended. Just like she knows she should find a way to explain, to just _talk_ to him. But she can’t even explain it to herself, so how is she supposed to be able to explain it to him?

_I’m sorry the thought of kissing you makes me feel like I’m going to drown._

That would probably go over really well.

She tried so hard. So hard to be what he needs. But Tobias was right. This isn’t a fairytale.

Looking back down at the letter from Tobias in her hands, she takes a deep breath. The clink of glasses and gurgle of bubbling liquid should be calming in its familiarity, and she tries to let it relax her.

_We made it safe and sound. Already been dragged to three separate wizards who poke and prod at me and speak with stately sonorous voices like I’m already dead. It’s going to be a long summer._

It’s barely June, the endless weeks stretching out ahead. The only thing more daunting is the prospect of returning to Hogwarts. She’s left feeling like she can’t decide if she wants time to stand still or speed up. Mostly she just doesn’t want to be wherever she is at any given moment.

Shaking her head, she skims Tobias’s letter again. She’s about halfway through when she smells it, tangled in with the other scents.

Dusky camas.

Just the faintest whiff of it from something at the potion station, and without warning it seems to fill her nose like a solid thing, thick and choking. It spreads down her throat and into her lungs.

She can’t breathe.

She pushes back from the table, her chest heaving with the effort of finding air, the sounds and tastes creeping in to join the smothering smell. It fills her ears, and she’s there. Back there in a moment.

It isn’t real, she knows, knows for a _fact_ , but her body isn’t listening, her brain doesn’t listen, because there is too much smoke and screams and the terrible sharp tang of blood and she can’t be here. She can’t.

_Oh, you’ve gone and done it now, Weasley._

“Ginny?” someone says, touching her arm.

She jerks back away, looking up into Ron’s concerned face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she manages to say like there aren’t spots in her vision, like she isn’t fighting for oxygen.

Ron frowns.

“I’m fine,” she says again, getting shakily to her feet, the ground swaying perilously. “I’m just going to go upstairs.”

She vaguely waves the letter in her hand in excuse and flees as fast as she can manage.

The smell lingers.

*     *     *

Harry wakes with a start, fumbling his wand as he tries to orient himself. Shoving to his feet, he grips his wand more firmly between his fingers and glances around. The sitting room is dark and familiar around him. He stills, listening intently but for a moment all he hears is the rapid thud of his heart.

Out the front window, the path leading to the front of the Burrow is empty.

Behind him comes the soft sound of things clanking together. He turns his head, tracking the sounds to the kitchen. Just someone getting a midnight snack, he tells himself, lowering his wand.

Nothing to worry about.

Still, he’s awake now, adrenaline thudding through his body. He crosses over to the doorway, just to see who is awake this late. Ron’s been known to wander down in the middle of the night.

It isn’t Ron.

Ginny stands by the sink. She has her back to him, her hair hanging down around her shoulders.

She wasn’t at dinner, so it makes sense that she would be hungry. She isn’t eating though, hasn’t so much as moved since he started watching her. She’s just staring out the window as far as he can tell.

Another long minute drags by, and Harry opens his mouth to say something only to change his mind. If she missed dinner to avoid him, she probably wouldn’t appreciate him barging in on her midnight snack. Besides, he hasn’t exactly been keen to see her either. He’s not angry exactly. But that doesn’t mean he wants to spend a ton of time around a girl he’s made an arse of himself with. He supposes eventually he’ll stop feeling stung and embarrassed, but tonight is not that time.

He tries to quietly step back out, but considering how much the universe hates him, it isn’t a huge surprise that the floor creaks loudly under his weight.

He winces, but Ginny is the one to whirl about, clearly startled, her elbow catching the glass sitting at the edge of the counter. It smashes rather spectacularly on the floor, milk spraying everywhere. She jumps back out of the way with a small yelp.

Harry internally curses. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to…”

Ginny glances up at him, still looking terrified, her hand pressed to her chest as she tries to catch her breath. Just looking at her brings up this mad tangle of emotions in his chest.

She shakes her head. “No, I…”

She looks back down at the milk slowly spreading across the floor. Sucking in an unsteady breath, she blinks rapidly, and for a moment it looks like she might cry.  

“You know the worst part of all of this?” she asks, voice wavering.

“What?” he asks, feeling strangely rooted to the spot, like he couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.

“Even after everything, I still can’t use my wand.”

She lets out a soft laugh that is on the edge of being hysterical, and Harry really isn’t sure what to do with this version of Ginny, looking small and out of sorts. She kneels down to pick up the pieces of glass.

“Stop,” he says, more harshly than he intends to judge from the way she recoils, bits of glass clattering back to the floor.

He forces himself to take a breath and soften his voice. “You’re just…you’re going to hurt yourself.” He walks over, kneeling down by the mess. “I can do it. Okay?”

After a long moment she nods, sitting back on her heels before rolling to her feet and moving away.

He repairs the glass easily enough, but lingers a bit over clearing up the milk.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

He shakes his head, not turning to look at her. “I’m the one who snuck up on you.”

“Not for the glass, Harry,” she says, sounding a little exasperated.

_Of course,_ he thinks, and there it is again, the press of embarrassment and disappointment.

He pushes to his feet, putting the glass in the sink. “It’s fine,” he says, hoping that if they have to have this conversation they can atleast get through it as fast as possible. “If you don’t… It’s fine.”

They don’t need to rehash this as far as he’s concerned. He thought that kiss out by the forest meant something. But clearly he misinterpreted. It’s as simple as that.

But apparently Ginny isn’t content to let it go. “You said you watched me on the map,” she says.

He supposes it was too much to hope that they could both pretend that never happened. He just doesn’t understand why she’s doing this, throwing it back in his face.

“I didn’t have a map,” she says.

He frowns, turning around to look at her. She’s standing near the stove, her arms crossed over her chest as she regards him. “What?”

“I didn’t have a dot. I didn’t have anything.”

He feels that accusation hit home. “I know,” he says, because does he really need a reminder that he left?

Her chin comes up. “So instead, I tried to forget.”

_Sometimes you just can’t go back._

“Did you?” he asks, feeling something painful fill his chest.

She shrugs. “It seemed…safer.”

He can’t even argue with that. Wasn’t he the one who said it was selfish of him to kiss her in the first place? Knowing that more than likely he’d never come back? And that was before he had a 10,000-Galleon price on his head. Not the mention that people closest to him have always had a habit of getting hurt, or worse.

None of that makes it easier to hear though, the explanation of why she doesn’t want this anymore.

“So I tried to forget,” she says, relentless. “And now I just can’t quite remember who I was before all this started. Before you left.”

Sometimes she is exactly who he remembers, and then others… Yes. She’s changed. He has too. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want everything to go back to the way it was. He’d do anything to pretend this last year never happened. To just pick up exactly where they left off.

But clearly that isn’t going to happen.

“It’s fine,” he says again, like maybe he’ll believe it if he says it enough, like maybe it can somehow make this hurt less.

She makes an impatient sound. “Stop saying that. It’s not fine.”

He feels his temper spike, everything boiling up that he’s been trying so hard to hold back. “Then tell me what it is, Ginny,” he says, taking a step towards her. “Tell me what I’m supposed to say. Because I don’t have a bloody clue!”

She flinches back, and he’s left feeling like an arse again, but what the hell does she expect from him? For him to calmly stand here and listen to her explain all the ways he ruined this?

She can’t even _look_ at him.

He drags a hand over his face. “Ginny,” he says, her name coming out as a frustrated sigh.

She stares down at her toes, slowly shaking her head back and forth. “The truth is,” she says, “ _I’m_ not fine.”

“What?” Harry says, sure he can’t have heard her properly.

“It’s the worst part, really, because I want to. I want to be that girl that you…” She sucks in an unsteady breath. “I want to kiss you and be happy and have that fix everything and just not think about any of this, but I don’t know how to. I don’t know how to _be_ that, and it isn’t fair to you, and that’s _not fine_ , okay?”

This is too much for him to process through the mess of emotions clamoring in his head, so instead he forces himself to look at her, _really_ look at her, because no matter how tumultuous everything gets, Ginny has always been like a calm in the storm. Steady. Only she doesn’t look it, now that he’s paying attention.

Her fingers are digging into her arms like she’s trying really hard not to fall apart.

“Ginny,” he says, taking a step towards her, and all he wants in that moment is to just make this better. To make her stop looking like that.

But she lifts a hand to stop him, that same expression on her face that she had back by the pond. It’s almost…panic. Like she’s _afraid_ of him.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you need.”

Then she turns and flees, and the only reason he doesn’t try to stop her is the memory of that look on her face.

_I’m not fine._

He stands in the kitchen for a long time, staring after her and wondering what the hell just happened.

*     *     *

Ginny lies in bed long after the sun rises, long after the typical morning sounds build and fade into midday silence. No one bothers her, not even Hermione as she gets ready and heads off somewhere with everyone else.

She just sends Ginny a few sidelong looks, the kind she’s getting really sick of receiving at this point. It’s become an unspoken thing, the way Ginny is clearly losing her mind. She’s lost count of how many times she drifts into a memory and can’t climb back out.

But to judge by the way no one mentions it, it’s just another thing to sweep under the rug and pretend doesn’t exist.

_I’m not fine._

It was almost a relief to finally admit it out loud, if not for the look on Harry’s face. She’s embarrassed to have lost control like that, and it’s just another reason being around him is difficult because all of the rules seem to fly out the window when he’s around. 

Control is the only way she has survived. Only now it’s like her walls, her protections, are crumbling. For days now she’s been gritting her teeth and building them up again, shoving everything back into place, but they feel porous.

Fragile.

Because the ugly truth is that she’s not fine, and it’s not working.

When the house is quiet, Ginny rolls out of bed. Opening her closet, she considers the trunk sitting there. Somehow it survived, tucked safely away in The Parlor while the castle was pummeled to bits and the Room of Requirement burned from the inside out.

Just another thing that doesn’t make sense.

Lifting the lid of her trunk, she isn’t ready for the rush of familiar smells, the memories they drag along in their wake, and, Merlin, for a moment it feels like trying to walk back into the castle. Impossible and unavoidable, and she needs to be better.

Clenching her jaw, she breathes through her mouth and starts shifting through robes and supplies, looking for the book she never got the chance to return to Snape. She thinks what he would say to her, if he saw her like this.

_A true Slytherin never lets their emotions undermine their control._

It’s the one thing she promised him. That she wouldn’t forget his lessons. It’s time for her to regroup. To fall back on familiar, dependable patterns; to return to the beginning. It’s something.

She lifts the heavy tome, ready to pile everything else back in, but sitting there in the bottom corner is a small wooden box. Everything swims dangerously again.

Lowering the book to the floor, she leans in, flicking the clasp on the box open. The lid pops opens, and there, nestled carefully in cotton cloth is the amulet she used to bind Crabbe and Goyle to her will.

She forces herself to pick it up, to feel the coarse weight of it in her fingers, the horrible crawl of power and consequences as the energy rushes over her skin.

Maybe what’s really happening is that she’s finally run out of space to hide.

*     *     *

Ginny waits until the kitchen is empty to build a small fire on the hearth. Standing in the flames, she tosses down a handful of Floo powder and says, “Knockturn Alley.”

She stumbles out of the hearth into a dark taproom. The room is mostly empty, just a few heavily cloaked people sitting at one table.

She can feel their eyes on her, but none of them lift their heads, faces still carefully hidden. She tightens her hand around her wand, even knowing she isn’t actually allowed to use it.

Pulling the hood of her cloak up over her head, she strides across the room and into the alley beyond. Outside she glances both ways, trying to orient herself. A hag steps out of the darkness across the way.

“Sickle for your fortune, dearie.”

Ginny shakes her head, turning left and striding forward as if she knows exactly where she is headed. Three more turns and she stumbles upon her destination. The small shop front has a gilded sign above the door with peeling letters spelling out _Verdigris_.

The door groans slightly as Ginny ducks into the dark, book-lined space. She feels a rush of relief as she recognizes the woman behind the counter.

Antonia looks up as the door closes. “Ginny,” she says, clearly surprised to see her.

She tries to say something back, a simple greeting, but she feels her throat close up. The last time she saw Antonia was at Caroline’s funeral.

Antonia comes around the counter. “Is everything all right?” She touches Ginny’s shoulder, brow furrowed, but honestly this is the last thing she needs right now.

“Can I borrow a sanctified gold dagger?” she practically blurts. “I’m sorry to even ask. I just don’t have a lot of funds at the moment. And I’m not sure my parents would understand.”

“Of course,” Antonia immediately agrees, even as she takes a moment to regard Ginny like she’s looking for clues to explain the unexpected request. “Just wait here.”

She bustles into the back of the shop, returning after a moment with a slim wooden case.

Ginny takes it from her. “And maybe a copy of _Incantaxa Femella_?”

She doesn’t miss the way Antonia’s eyes widen, like this is one final clue slipping into place. Without another word, she turns, heading for one of the glass cases behind the counter, returning with a volume covered in deep red vellum.

“I owe you,” Ginny says, tucking the book and box away in her robe.

“That’s not the way this works,” Antonia reminds her. 

Ginny nods, because of course it isn’t. She turns to leave.

Antonia takes hold of her arm. “Tea?” she asks, fingers firm.

Ginny can tell it isn’t really a question. “Of course.”

They sit in the back of the shop together for a half hour, talking about nothing having anything to do with Hogwarts or wars or secret magics. Antonia talks about Theodora’s new job, about a particular text she’s been trying to hunt down for months with little success, the trip she’s thinking of taking to Paris to visit Lucas.

Ginny sits and listens to the casual, mundane details of people’s lives and by the time she gets up to leave, it feels like she can almost breathe again.

“Ginny,” Antonia says, stopping her at the door as she’s leaving.  

Ginny pauses, looking back over her shoulder at her.

“You did what you had to.”

_Necessary_.

Ginny nods, swallowing back against the thickness in her throat. “I know I did. But I can’t shake the feeling that a lot of people have said that about a lot of terrible things.”

Antonia can’t argue that, merely looking back at her.

“I’ll bring these back when I can,” Ginny promises.

Antonia nods.

Ginny gets a little lost on the way back to the taproom, so it’s been about an hour by the time she Floos back to the Burrow. Fortunately, the kitchen is still empty as she brushes off the telltale ash from her cloak.

Before she can make it to the stairs, the back door bursts open.

“She isn’t in the paddock,” Ron says as he tumbles in at a near run, clearly out of breath.

His eyes land on Ginny.

“Oh,” he says. “Mum! She’s here.”

Molly comes tearing into the kitchen. “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?”

Ginny blinks, taken aback by her mum’s tone. “I went to see a friend in London.”  

But this doesn’t seem to appease her. “On your own?” she says, voice shrill. “Without telling anyone?”

Ginny sighs, taking off her cloak. “It’s not a big deal.”

“You’re underage,” Molly reminds her, as if she could ever forget.

“Nothing happened,” she says, draping the cloak over the back of a chair, her hands digging into the fabric.  

“It isn’t safe!”

And that’s it. That’s _it_. Like some last fragile thread holding everything at bay gives, and she’s left seething.

For a moment she wants to tear through the room, to throw chairs and smash plates. Wants this ridiculous, quiet, ordered place to look how she _feels_. Wants this pain out of her body, and she thinks if she could project it, bottle it up and shove it down someone else’s throat in exchange for just two moments of that fuzzy relief she would.

She would do _anything_.

“It isn’t _safe_?” she very nearly yells. “Since when has _anything_ been safe?”

They both recoil, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t bloody _care_.

“Where were your rules and protections this last year? When I went into that school on my own? When I got this?” she says, pointing to the faded bruise on her face. “Or any of the _five times_ I had the Cruciatus used on me?”

The room is deathly quiet, Molly standing with her hand pressed to her mouth, tears in her eyes.

Ginny snatches up her cloak. “I’ll tell you where they were. Nowhere. They were _nowhere_. So excuse me if I didn’t ask permission to run a simple errand.”

Turning, she walks from the kitchen, running up the stairs and slamming her bedroom door behind her as loudly as she can.

She’s losing control of everything.

*     *     *

Harry drags his sleeve across his forehead, pausing a moment to take stock of his progress.

He’s in a very obscure part of the castle now. All of the main living areas have been declared free of curses—the Great Hall, the infirmary, the kitchens, the common rooms and dorms. Most of the volunteers are now focusing on rebuilding and clean-up, making it habitable.

All in all, he thinks it probably won’t take more than another two weeks to clear up the last of the dark spells. He does his best to ignore the question of what he’ll do after that. There’s still the Forbidden Forest to be dealt with, at least.

He leans back against a wall. He’s tired, the kind of tired that can make someone sloppy. Fortunately today’s tasks aren’t really all that dangerous. Unfortunately that means they aren’t quite enough to keep his mind occupied either. It’s even worse once Ron returns back to the Burrow after getting an owl from Molly saying she needs him.

Harry keeps finding his mind turning back to what happened with Ginny, and the whole point of being here is to not think. All in all, he doesn’t make a lot of progress.

Some hours later Harry hears the sound of tumbling rock and a loud curse. He looks back to see Ron working his way over to his side.

“Bloody death trap,” Ron mutters as he steps more carefully over the next pile of stone.

“Hey,” Harry says. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, finally making it to Harry’s side. “Ginny was missing.”

“What?” Harry says, turning around, tasks forgotten.

“She’s fine,” Ron says, waving away his concern. “She just went to see a friend or something, but didn’t bother telling Mum.”

Harry wills his heartbeat back under control. “Oh.”

Rather than picking up with the work, Ron sits down, leaning back against the wall.

Harry frowns at his best mate, settling down next to him. “What is it?”

Ron lets out a breath, rubbing a hand over her face. “The bloody family clock,” he says. “Her hand was on travelling. You know, just like…”

Just like Fred’s.

Harry curses under his breath.  

Ron shakes his head. “Mum got real upset with her. For being underage, for disappearing like that.”

“I imagine Ginny enjoyed that,” Harry says, resting his arms on his knees, his wand twisting absently between his fingers.

Ron winces. “She just…lost it.”

Harry thinks of Molly and the Boggart back in Grimmauld Place. Child after child lying on the floor, staring blankly up towards the ceiling.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Your mum must have been scared.”

He shakes his head. “Not Mum. Ginny.”

“Did she?” Harry asks. He should be surprised by that, maybe, the way she’s been so quiet and still all summer. But he isn’t, because he remembers her in the kitchen last night, the way she seemed to radiate volatile energy.

“I don’t think I’ve heard her yell like that in years. She said…” Ron breaks off, his jaw tightening. “She said she had the Cruciatus used on her five times last year.”

“ _What_?” Harry says, back straightening.

Ron just nods, his face wan.

Harry can see it again, Ginny’s face in the dark of the kitchen.

_Even after everything, I still can’t use my wand._

He hasn’t really thought about what she meant by _everything_. Hasn’t particularly wanted to.

Ron scuffs a bit of stone with his toe. “I mean, I knew she’d been having those weird little turns of hers, but I never thought about _why_.”

“Weird little turns?” Harry asks, a dawning sense of having missed something stupidly important beginning to creep up his neck.

“Yeah, you know. Like one minute she’s here and the next…” He waves a hand in front of his face. “It’s like she’s just not here anymore, but somewhere else, somewhere bad. Panic attacks, Hermione says Muggles call ‘em. Like being stuck in a bad memory and not being able to escape.”

“I didn’t know that,” Harry says, hands tightening on his knees.

“Oh,” Ron says. “I guess you weren’t around for those. Count yourself lucky. They’re horrible.”

No, Harry hasn’t been around. He’s been here in this bloody castle.

“You know,” Ron says, “despite everything Neville told us, I think I still assumed they had it easier here, you know? Easier than us. How bloody stupid was that?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, because he’s guilty of that too, isn’t he?

Ron leans his head back against the wall, staring up at the castle. “What happened here?”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Ron turns to him, his expression bleak. “I can’t help but think… I left her alone here.”

He grabs Ron’s shoulder, squeezing firmly. “We all did.”

Harry most of all.

*     *     *

That evening, Ginny doesn’t come down for dinner.

Harry isn’t particularly surprised. He may even be a little relieved, as much of an arse as that makes him. He just isn’t sure he’ll be able to look her in the face and not imagine her screaming. Without wondering where he was when that was happening.

Or worst of all, wondering if there is any chance it happened _because_ of him.

_It just seemed...safer._

“How’s Ginny?” Ron asks, breaking the rather uncomfortable silence of the table.

Molly has been subdued all dinner, and she doesn’t look up from her plate to answer the question.

Arthur reaches out and covers her hand with his. “Your sister is going to stay with Bill and Fleur for a while. She leaves in the morning.”

Ron’s mouth opens in astonishment. “Wait. You’re sending her away?”

“She asked to go,” Molly says, voice crisp. “And we are letting her.”

“Why?” Ron presses.

“You’ll have to ask Ginny,” she says.

Arthur squeezes Molly’s hand. “Everything will work itself out. You’ll see.”

Harry looks down at his plate, but isn’t particularly hungry anymore.

He follows Ron out to the garden after dinner, the two of them spending an hour chucking gnomes over the fence while Hermione sits nearby. Ron is unusually tight-lipped, and Harry lets him have his silence, having no idea what he’d say in response anyway.

When it finally starts to get dark, Harry finds Hermione trying to catch his eye. It takes him a moment to realize that she wants to talk with Ron on her own, but isn’t sure how to ask for it.

Harry dusts off his hands. “I think I’m gonna head inside,” he says.

Hermione shoots him a grateful smile. “Night, Harry.”

Slapping Ron on the shoulder, he leaves them both, heading inside.

He pauses on the first landing, eyeing Ginny’s closed door. He considers crossing over to knock, but has no idea what he would say, or if she’d even want to see him.

Shifting from foot to foot, he tells himself to suck it up so he can at least say goodbye. Striding over, he knocks before he can talks himself out of it. He waits, but there is no answer, and he doesn’t know if that’s because she’s hiding or if she’s already asleep.

Turning, he heads for Bill’s room, gathering his things before trudging up to the bathroom.

It’s quiet, everyone else already in bed.

He reaches for the handle to the bathroom door only to have it pull open under his hand.

He finds himself face to face with Ginny. She’s wearing a robe, her hair hanging wet down around her face.

She sucks in a breath, clearly startled to see him there.

“Sorry,” Harry says. “I didn’t know anyone was in there.”

She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “It’s fine. I shouldn’t have…”

She trails off, and Harry considers asking her what she shouldn’t have done. Opened a door? Used the bathroom in her own house?

She glances up at him, only to look away quickly, and that’s when he realizes he is still just standing there, clearly blocking her way.

“I’ll just…” he says, stepping to the side, giving her ample room to get by.

“Thanks.”

They give each other embarrassed smiles, finally stepping around each other.

_Well, that went well_ , Harry thinks with a wince.

“Harry,” she says.

He turns back around. “Yeah?”

“I don’t know if Mum mentioned anything, but…”

“You’re going to Shell Cottage,” he says.

She nods. “I’m leaving pretty early in the morning.” She gives him a tight smile. “I guess I didn’t want to disappear without saying goodbye.”

“No,” he says. “That’s my thing.”

She frowns.

He tries to smile, to play it off as a harmless joke. He isn’t sure she buys it. “I hope you have a nice time.”

Now she’s looking at him like he’s losing his mind. “It’s not really that kind of a trip.”

Of course it bloody isn’t.

He _hates_ how awkward everything is between them, especially because it’s probably his own damn fault. He just doesn’t know what to say other than _I’m sorry I couldn’t see how hard of time you’ve been having_.  

She takes a few steps back, and he doesn’t think he’s imagining that she looks a little disappointed. “Bye, Harry.”

He watches her retreat but can’t stop himself from blurting out, “You aren’t going because of me, are you?”

“What?” she asks, turning back around to look at him.

“Because I don’t need to be staying here.” He can go to Grimmauld. Or pitch a tent at Hogwarts with the other students. Or get a room at the Leaky Cauldron.

“Harry,” she says, sounding exasperated. “Not everything is about you. Not anymore.”

He can’t help but wince.

Her shoulders drop, her eyes closing for a moment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No,” he says. “You’re right.”

And isn’t that exactly what he’s always wanted? For it to not be about him?

She doesn’t immediately turn to leave again, and Harry somehow bolsters the nerve to ask what he really wants to ask. He is fairly certain he doesn’t even really want to hear her answer, but he just needs to know. He’s tired of being confused and getting it all wrong all the time.

“What happened? Out by the pond when I tried to kiss you?”

She seems to quietly recoil at the question, and he half expects her to turn and run again. Instead she just pulls her robe tighter across her chest, closing her eyes for a moment as if trying to gather her thoughts.

“I smelled smoke,” she says.

That is pretty much the last thing he expects her to say. “What?”

She licks her lips, staring somewhere near his feet. “It was the smoke and that field and the bodies. And you, walking out into that bloody forest. And I just...” She closes her eyes. “I couldn’t breathe.”

_Christ_ , Harry thinks

She looks almost angry at herself. “I know it’s stupid.

“It’s not.”

It’s horrible and frustrating and not a little confusing, but it isn’t stupid.

She looks at him, something hard and icy about her expression. “Doesn’t happen to you though, does it?”

He has no idea what to say about that, the way she makes it sound like she’s somehow weak. He shrugs helplessly. “I guess I just...don’t think about it.”

“And that works?” she asks. “Because it never seems to matter what I want.”

He thinks about how wrong he’s gotten all of this. Her standing there in the dark apologizing for not being what _he_ needs.

“What about Shell Cottage?” he asks.

“What?” she asks, back to looking wary.

“Is that what you want?” Because it’s not about what he needs. Maybe it’s about what she needs.

She seems to consider him for a long moment. “Yes,” she eventually says. “It is.”

“Okay,” he says. “Good.”

“Yeah?” she asks, looking a little confused.

He nods. “I just… I’ll be here, you know, when you get back. Okay?”

Now she isn’t watching him with fear or panic, but something almost painful to look at straight on. She nods, gnawing at her bottom lip. “Okay.”

He nods, smiling at her before turning back towards the bathroom.

“Harry?”

He stops, looking back at her.  

“Would you do something for me?”

“Sure,” he says.

She regards him for a long moment, and he tries his best not to squirm under her scrutiny.

“Just…no more sleeping in the sitting room, okay?”

He would wonder how she knows about that, but Ginny always seems to have a better idea what’s going on around her than most.

He nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

Seemingly content with that, she gives him a tentative smile and then disappears down the stairs.

Harry stares after her for a long moment before finally stepping into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

It smells of flowers.


	8. Chapter 8

Shell Cottage sits on a beautiful stretch of beach nestled into low, rolling sand dunes. There are no neighbors within sight, just Bill, Fleur, a raucous crowd of gulls, and the waves.

Ginny has never been somewhere simultaneously so loud and so empty.

She settles into a small room on the top floor with a view of the ocean. Bill is at work, but Fleur happily fusses over her. Ginny doesn’t mind, because the thought of having to decide anything for herself has become too onerous to even contemplate.

She thinks she may be content staring out this window for the rest of her life.

Fleur opens her suitcase, pulling out clothing, casting smoothing charms and guiding them to the closet and dresser.

“You really don’t have to do this,” Ginny says, turning from the window.

“I don’t mind,” she says with a smile. Her smile slips as she looks down at something in the suitcase.

Ginny feels a bolt of alarm, crossing over to the bed as she remembers that there is far more than just clothing in there. Before she can reach it, Fleur has pulled out the slim case, flipping it open to look at the gold dagger. She trails her fingers down the runes embossed on the handle.

“Fleur,” Ginny says, feeling her heart stutter in her chest.

She doesn’t respond, lifting a sweater next, uncovering the deep red leather book.

Ginny watches her, her throat swamped with an emotion that can’t seem to decide between horror and sheer, breathless relief.

“What do you need?” Fleur says, voice soft.

Ginny stares at her in surprise, mind spinning with ways to explain, but Fleur just looks back at her steadily.

She takes a careful breath. “Firewood.”

Fleur stares down at the book for another long moment before snapping the suitcase lid shut. “I shall have some sent from the village.”

Fleur crosses over to her, taking her face in her hands. She seems to study her for a long moment.

“I’ll let you rest. Lunch will be in an hour.”

With that, she leaves, Ginny staring after her.

True to her word, by that afternoon a small pile of wood rests by the back door.

Ginny breathes out.

*     *     *

Ginny spends the next day studying the text, reviewing and finalizing each tiny detail of the required ritual. Without questions, Fleur provides Ginny with everything she needs, and this is one of the reasons she wanted to come here. She knew she would never find the room to do what needs to be done back at the Burrow. Not without interrogations and confusion and concerns.

In return, Ginny doesn’t ask any questions of her own.

As the sun finally settles into the ocean, she changes into a simple white cotton shift. She brushes out her hair and braids it into one thick plait down her back. Tying a sash around her waist, she tucks the gold dagger in next to her body, the blade cool through the cloth.

The very last thing she does is lift the amulet up and over her head. It settles against her chest, heavy like an unwanted memory.

Her wand she leaves behind on her dresser. Because she does not have the legal right to wield it, yes; but also because there is no place in this for conventional magics. Not tonight.

Bill and Fleur are sitting in the small rear garden when she comes out. She has no idea what Fleur may have said to Bill, but he sits quietly, despite the sharpness of his eyes as he watches her step out of the house. He is clearly not happy, but is willing to stay out of it.

Fleur hands her a lit candle in a simple brass holder.

“Thank you,” Ginny says.

Fleur nods.

She walks out onto the beach, the sand cool under her bare feet, the wind curling the simple white gown around her calves.

A small scaffold of firewood waits for her near the shore, a wooden salver carefully balanced on the top.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Bill and Fleur watching from the top of a nearby dune.

Ginny sets the candle holder down on the sand. Carefully taking the amulet in both of her hands, she lifts her face to the ocean, taking in a deep breath.

“I release them,” she announces, her intentions swirling with the wind.

Lifting the bramble amulet up over her head, she places it on the salver. Kneeling, she touches the candle flame to the wood.

The flames lick at the wood before rushing up with an unseen power, a low rush of sound and heat rumbling upward as the fire envelops the salver. With greedy fingers, the amulet burns and bubbles and rattles before she loses sight of the salver completely amid the flames.

She lifts her hands, palms towards the heat. “I release them.”

Pulling the knife from her sash, she lifts it, the gold blade glinting in the firelight. She can see Bill step forward, Fleur putting her hand on his arm to stop him, her voice a gentle murmur.

Lifting her braid, Ginny saws through it at the base of her neck. When the hair comes free, she drops it onto the fire, the flames flaring once more. They roar upwards, the heat like a physical wall that Ginny forces herself to hold her ground against.

“I release them,” she very nearly shouts, holding firm, willing the third and final incantation past her lips.  

The scaffolding collapses, sparks scattering across the beach and rising up into the sky on curls of smoke. Ginny feels small singes against her skin, small holes burning into the cotton fabric, but does not step away.

She holds her ground until the fire finally pulls back into itself, leaving nothing but a pile of smoldering embers. Lifting the knife again, Ginny slices open the pad of her thumb, squeezing a few drops of blood to hiss and spatter against the coals.

Vanity to the fire. Blood to the earth.

“The binding is broken. The price is paid.”

Only then does she give in to the weakness, the tingling dizziness. She drops to her knees, sucking in deep breaths.

Fleur kneels next to her, lifting a heavy blanket around her shoulders. “Ginny?” she asks.

Ginny nods. “It’s done.”

She can feel it, at once like a terrible weight that has been lifted off of her, but also a loss. A protection stripped away.  A sense of control.

“It’s done,” she says again.

Fleur squeezes her arms, before pulling back away.

“Come,” Fleur says, taking Bill’s arm and leading him back to the cottage.

Curling up in the sand, Ginny dreams of fire and rushing heat swallowing her whole.

She wakes to the dawn crawling its way across the sea, the breeze sweeping the beach clean.

*      *     *

Ginny is incredibly weak the next few days, which, really, seems a small enough price.

She doesn’t leave her room. She sleeps for long hours, like somehow there will never be enough sleep. She wakes only long enough to eat when Fleur brings food. To assure Bill that she will be fine. There’s no need for a Healer.

When she sleeps, she dreams. Endless, sharp, relentless dreams, but they don’t wake her. Just continue on, an endless cycle of people’s memories, people’s fears.

But never her own.

She can’t fight them, so she doesn’t bother trying, letting them come and come and come.

_Once you take they will always be yours._

So be it.

By the fourth day, the small burns have settled into pale scars like constellations down her arm, and she is able to pull herself out of bed and down the narrow stairwell.

Fleur is in the kitchen. “Good morning,” she says.

Ginny wraps the blanket around her shoulders and sits.

“Have I…changed?” she asks Fleur, more curious than anything. Wondering what she looks like to people now, if they can tell.

“We all have, _ma cherie_ ,” she says, her eyes on Bill out in the yard where he’s reading a paper. “It isn’t so much the change that worries, but the ways we react to it.”

Or don’t react, Ginny thinks.

Sometimes she feels like she turned off a switch somewhere. Just, _click_ , no more dangerous thoughts or emotions she couldn’t afford to have. She just doesn’t know how to undo that.

Or maybe just hasn’t wanted to.

Fleur shakes her head. “So much death. It’s hard to know what to do with it.”

Ginny bites down on her tongue, refusing to let her mind go down that path.

Fleur pulls the kettle off the burner. “One can spend an eternity searching for meaning where perhaps there is none.”

Ginny stares out the window, watching the waves sweep in and pull back out. They are quiet for so long, she begins to hope she’s escaped the conversation.

“Do you think you deserved to survive?” Fleur asks.

Ginny thinks that is a stupid question. Death has never been a matter of deserving or not, or everything would have turned out so very differently. “Does it matter? I did.”

“Are you glad you did?”

Ginny whips her head around to look at Fleur, but she is still calmly pouring tea as if the question is in no way extraordinary.

What’s worse is Ginny doesn’t have an answer.

“Gin?” Bill asks, pulling open the back door.

“Yes?” she asks, looking up to see him standing in the doorway, wiping his hands on a towel.

“It’s Sunday,” he says.

She knows what he is going to ask. “No,” she says. “Not yet.”

He doesn’t press. “Do you want us to stay?”

She shakes her head.

A few hours later he and Fleur Floo to the Burrow.

Ginny walks through the empty house from top to bottom—taking in the neat, organized spaces, the homey details. She wonders what it would be like, to see the memories of a place, a thing the way you can delve into a living mind. What does it see? What does it remember?

When she can’t stand the silence anymore, she walks out to the beach, filling her ears with the pounding crescendo. The sun is lowering towards the horizon, but bright still, burning late into the summer evening.

She moves down to the shore, the sand cold and hard under her feet just where water meets land.

She runs, feet moving faster and faster until her breath is ragged, her chest burning. She stops, hands on her hips, a stitch in her side. She’s barely come half a mile.

Tomorrow, she’ll try again.

Turning, she walks back to the cottage.

*     *     *

Each morning after, Ginny spends long hours running along the shore, her muscles burning with the effort, the sand sucking at her feet.

It’s a good pain, a feeling rooted in something concrete and real.

It’s a _feeling_.

Each day she goes a little further. Each day it hurts just a little less.

She’s been there ten days when she stumbles across a grave in the bluff above the cottage.

_Dobby_ , it reads. _A Free Elf_.

Another casualty. One that slipped by without mention.

At dinner that night, she looks at Bill. “There’s a grave up on the hill.”

“Dobby’s,” he says.

“Yeah. I didn’t know he’d died.”

Bill looks out the window towards the dune. “Harry dug it with his own hands.”

“Did he?” she asks.

“Dobby died saving them. It was Bellatrix.” He trails off, like he isn’t sure she’ll want the details.

“Tell me,” she says.

Bill and Fleur share a look. “Are you sure?”

Ginny nods. “Yes.”  

She sits quietly as they tell her about Malfoy Manor. About Luna and Dean and Ron and Harry, and Hermione having the word Mudblood carved into her skin. About Griphook and Ollivander and secret meetings and Harry spending long hours in the dunes, a spare bit of parchment in his hands like it might somehow have all the answers. Torture and risky plans and one last tiny bit of hope.

And at the center of it all, a dead House Elf.

She stares into her brother’s ravaged face and thinks, _This_. _This is why we fought a war._

*     *     *

By the time another Sunday rolls around, Ginny still isn’t ready to face dinner at the Burrow. Bill and Fleur come back this time with pinched faces and obvious relief to be home.

“What?” Ginny asks, looking between them. “What’s happened?”  

“George’s decided he wants to open up the shop again,” Bill reports.

“Really?”

Bill winces. “There was a pretty big row.”

“Let me guess,” Ginny says. “Mum thinks it’s too soon.”

He drags a hand through his hair. “She actually forbade it.”

Ginny sighs. She wonders if part of being a mum is always thinking you know exactly what is right for everyone. “And George?”

“He got really mad, yelling about it being something they built together and refusing to let it disappear.”

Ginny turns, looking out the window. It’s the last part of Fred he has.

“Mum thinks we need to save him from himself.”

Ginny huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “I can imagine.”

“What do you think?” Fleur asks.

Ginny looks up to find her watching her. “What?”

“Do you think it is a bad idea?”

Ginny forces herself to consider it. It’s hard to know if any of the things they are doing are a good idea. How can they really know? If it’s the right thing, or if they are all just trying to hide?

It’s not like they can just pretend none of it ever happened. They’re all different, whether they want to admit it or not.

Ginny shrugs. “I don’t know.”

It feels like a relief to admit it.

*     *     *

“They set the date of the Carrows’ trial,” Bill informs her over breakfast one morning as he reads a letter.

It’s almost inconceivable that they, of all people, would both survive the battle. Snugly trussed up by McGonagall’s powerful spells, and not even a stray piece of rubble or a spell to catch them.

“The professors are all going to testify. They’re hoping to spare the students. But if you want…”

Ginny shakes her head. “I don’t.”

Bill touches her arm. “That’s fine.”

Ginny pushes food around her plate. “But maybe…maybe I could give you something you could make sure they all see?”

She knows the Carrows will be punished. She also knows it won’t be enough to fix anything. It’s the officials in that courtroom that really need to understand.

War doesn’t always look how you expect.

Bill nods. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Ginny pushes to her feet. “I just need to send an owl first.”

She writes a brief note to Neville, getting his permission. It doesn’t take long to get a response.

_If you think it’s important._

It is. She’s more certain of this than she’s been about anything in a while.

Bill brings home a Pensieve. She sits, willing the memory to the surface—Asha’s fear, Neville’s reckless smile, his blood on the floor, the screams, the never-ending screams—and it goes against everything she is now, every moment of training, to share so easily.

Bill’s wand touches to her temple, and there’s a moment of panic, but she breathes through it, letting the strands pull free.

_For Merlin’s sake_ , _just stay down. Just give up!_

The glistening silver streaks land in the bowl, and she doesn’t know how anything so ugly can be so beautiful.

“Can I watch it first?” Bill asks.

She hesitates again, but in just two days an entire courtroom of people are going to see it first hand, how far Amycus Carrow was willing to take it. She nods.

Bill comes back out of his bedroom twenty minutes later, his face stony.

He pulls Ginny into his chest, hugging her firmly and not saying a word.

She presses her face into his shirt and lets herself be held.

*     *     *

At the end of her morning run, Ginny glances up at the dunes. She works her way up through the grasses, the sand sliding away under her feet.

At the top, she looks down at the tiny grave.

“Hi,” she says. “I’m Ginny.”

There’s no answer, of course.

“I’m sorry we never got to meet,” she says, kneeling down. “But thank you. Thank you for saving them.”

She reaches out, her fingers catching on the carved letters, the slightly lopsided spacing.

Harry built this tiny grave in this beautiful place with his own hands. She imagines him here, sitting day after day with his guilt and the entire weight of the world on his shoulders as always. She wonders if it feels like he might float away now without it.

“He probably thinks it’s his fault,” she says “That you died. I bet you didn’t see it that way though, did you?”

He was rescuing his friends.

She looks down at the grave and wonders if Harry thinks he deserved to live. If he doesn’t maybe wonder if it should be him in this grave instead.

The mental image makes her entire chest ache, and this is just another way she is a terrible person; that given the choice, she is thankful Dobby is here and not Harry. Not Ron or Hermione or Luna or Fleur or Bill.

“They’re having trials,” she tells the stone. “Deciding who to punish. But punishing people doesn’t bring you back, does it?”

The only answer is the wind continuing its steady sweep, bending the grasses, bringing with it the screech of a gull.

Ginny finds herself back at Dobby’s grave every morning like there may be some answer here. It’s just a stone, a marker. But she pried everything open to share that memory of Neville for the Carrows’ trials, and now the rest are all bubbling horribly to the surface.

This feels like the one place she can actually let them out.  

So she speaks her words out into the salt air and sandy dunes and lets them be swept out and over the water. Over several mornings, she tells Dobby everything that happened at Hogwarts. Everyone she lost. Everything she did in the name of the greater good, if there is even such a thing.

It tumbles out relentlessly, like an infected wound seeping poison, and for once she doesn’t have to worry about what it sounds like, what it looks like from the outside, if Dobby will misunderstand, if he’ll keep her secrets or try to use them against her. She just speaks and speaks.

_We fought a war_ , she tells him. _I just don’t know how to stop._

Lying back on the dune, Ginny takes a deep breath and stares up into the summer sky.

*     *     *

“The Carrows are going to be confined to Azkaban for life,” Bill reports when he gets home later that week.

“Okay,” Ginny says.

But justice, it turns out, doesn’t really change anything. It’s just as much of a lie as everything else.

“Is Fleur here?” he asks.

He looks tired. Worn.

“In the garden,” Ginny says.

Watching from the window, she sees Bill walk up to Fleur were she kneels on the edge of a bed, a trellis of silver butterfly pea flowers climbing up over the low wall. She turns to look up at him.

Bill hunkers down next to her, reaching out to smooth a small smudge of dirt from her cheek.

She says something too quiet for Ginny to hear.

Bill just shakes his head, taking her arm and pulling her into his lap. They sit there among the flowers and vines.

Fleur’s fingers brush his arm, and after a moment, Bill turns his face into the crook of her neck.

Ginny looks away, slipping out the front door and around the side of the house until she is standing on the beach. She stares out over the waves, their steady surge and retreat. Ever onward. Rolling, rolling, rolling.

Never ending.

She takes one step forward and then another and another until she’s running, the waves splashing and swelling against her calves and her knees and then her thighs. She falls forward as the water hits her hips, slicing through the surface, the shock of cold coursing through her body, the sea a sting of salt against her skin.

She reaches forward with her arms, pulling herself through the water.

For a while, she loses herself in the rhythm of the stroke, in the tug of the ocean, her feet far above the ocean floor.

Floating free.

When she finally climbs back out, heading up for the house, Fleur clucks her tongue over the blue of Ginny’s lips as she wraps her in a towel, but doesn’t say anything.

*     *     *

“Ginny!” Fleur calls up the stairs. “You have visitors!”

Ginny puts a marker in her book and gets to her feet. She can’t imagine who might be here.

Out in the garden Neville, Luna, and Hannah are waiting for her. The entire world seems to rush back in with them.

“Is everything all right?” Ginny asks, feeling her heartbeat speed up.

“You tell us,” Neville says.

“What?” Ginny asks.

Luna nods. “You’ve clearly been infected with Cholerims.” Her eyes narrow as she regards her. “Though they do seem to be dissipating.”

“What Luna means is that we’re worried about you,” Hannah says.

She looks around at the three of them. “What is this? An intervention?”

“If it needs to be,” Neville says.

She looks at him, his lips twitching because the shoe is certainly on the other foot now, isn’t it?

“Look, Ginny,” Hannah says, getting to her feet. “We all know you love to take everything on yourself, but if you think we’re going to let you isolate yourself again, you clearly have not been paying attention. You’re our friend. Let us help.” She is nearly out of breath by the time she finishes.

“Are you done?” Ginny asks.

Hannah’s expression is mulish and wary, but she nods.

“Good,” Ginny says, and crosses over and pulls her into a hug. “Thank you for coming.”

Hannah seems thrown, as it takes a second for her to hug back. “Really?”

Ginny pulls back, giving her a smile. “You were expecting a fight?”

“Well,” Hannah says. “Yes.”

Ginny shakes her head. “Sorry. I’m fresh out of fight.”

She moves to Luna next, giving her a fierce hug, before turning to Neville.

“I’m not hiding,” she says. “I just needed…time. I guess.”

They all settle back in the chairs.

“So tell me,” Ginny says. “How are things at Hogwarts?”

“It’ll definitely be back open by the time September first rolls around,” Neville says.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been there.”

Neville shakes his head. “We know you would have been if you could.”

Hannah leans forward. “Are you going to go back?”

Ginny looks at the three of them and knows she could never leave them on their own.

“Yeah,” she says. “I can’t imagine it right now. But I’m going to.”

Hannah reaches out and takes her hand. “Good.”

“After all,” Ginny says. “Without me, who knows what the three of you might get up to.”

Neville laughs, Luna sitting back in her chair and turning her face up to the sun.

*     *     *

Ginny picks up a quill, unrolling a long piece of parchment on the table.

_Dear Smita_ , she writes.

_Thank you so much for writing. It’s a relief to know you and your family are all okay._

_I’ve spent weeks trying to think what to write to you. What to say about my life. What my life even is now. I can’t find the words for this last year. I’m not sure there are any words._

_It’s not that I wish that you had been here. I’m really, really glad you weren’t, that you won’t ever have to know any of that. But that doesn’t mean that part of me isn’t angry that you weren’t. That part of me isn’t angry that you aren’t here now. Because maybe I need you. I’m angry, and scared, and so endlessly thankful that you weren’t here and I don’t know if any of that makes sense, if having all of these conflicting thoughts in my head means I’m cracking or if I’m just finally being honest for once._

_I want to yell and rail and sleep for a million years and give thanks to every god who would listen that you are safe. I want to tell you how unbearably proud of you I am. That you did what you had to, that you haven’t let your dream die, that you are strong enough to stay and do what is right and good for you in a world that tells us to always sacrifice and stay quiet and don’t dream too big. I want to tell you how much it means to me that you have that. How much it means to know that you are out there somewhere, doing what you love, not letting this war define anything for you. I am so proud that you are my friend._

_Please write back and tell me all about your life. I want to know everything. And maybe by the time your next letter gets here, I’ll have found some words of my own._

_Love,_

_Ginny_

She seals the letter and gives it to Bill over breakfast.

“Can you post this for me?” she asks.

“Sure.”

She looks at Fleur. “I know you’ve been dying to do something about my hair.”

Fleur doesn’t even try to pretend otherwise. “ _Finally_.”

In front of a mirror, the two of them look at the roughly hacked hair falling just below Ginny’s chin.

Fleur toys with her wand. “I suppose it must grow out on its own.”

Ginny nods. No shortcuts. She doubts it would grow even if she tried to lengthen it.

Prices must be paid.

“Well then, we shall trim and shape a bit.”

Fleur takes her time, tongue poking out between her lips in concentration.

“Ask me again,” Ginny says as the ends of her hair begin to even out.

Fleur meets her eyes in the mirror. “Are you glad you survived?”

“Yes,” she says. “I am.”

She doesn’t know if she deserved to survive, just that she did. And now it’s time to figure out what to do with that.

*     *     *

At the beginning of July, four weeks after she left, Ginny returns the Burrow.

The kitchen is empty, all signs of breakfast already put away. The house itself is so quiet that it seems to press against her ears.

“Hello?” she calls out.

Her mum appears in the hall, a basket of darning and yarn in her hands. “Ginny. You’re back.”

She nods.

They awkwardly regard each other. Ginny supposes she needs to find a way to apologize, but knows it isn’t quite so simple.

“Have you eaten?” Molly asks.

“I did. Thanks.” She gestures at her suitcase. “I’m just going to run this upstairs.”

“Of course,” Molly says.

Ginny pushes open her door. Hermione’s bed is still in the room, a stack of books near it and a map of Australia pinned up on the wall.

Setting her suitcase on her bed, she sits next to it. Part of her wants to go back to the cottage, to escape this feeling that this room just doesn’t fit her anymore.

She forces herself to sit with it. After a few minutes, she pushes to her feet and goes downstairs.

Molly is in the sitting room, looking surprised to see her reappear. Ginny sits down on the sofa near her.

“Where is everyone?” she asks.

Her mum rattles off the information, her fingers not pausing in their task. “Ron is with George at the shop. Harry’s at Hogwarts. Dad and Percy are at work. Hermione is at the trials.”

Ginny nods, looking around the room and trying not to feel the empty silence of the place after living with the endless pulse of the ocean.

“Mum?” she asks, wanting something but not quite knowing what to ask for.

“Yes?”

Ginny’s eye is caught by the steady movement of her mum’s capable hands. “Do you think you could teach me?”

Her eyebrows lift. “How to knit?”

She nods.

Molly gives her a smile that wobbles just the slightest bit at the edges. “Of course, dear.”

The feel of yarn in her fingers is unexpectedly calming. She finds a new rhythm in the click of needles and careful building of rows. The tension has to be kept in perfect equilibrium between too taut and too loose.

Her first projects end up in hopeless tangles. It feels fitting.

“The trick,” Molly says, “is in finding balance.”

She won’t ever be who she was. That’s going to have to be okay.

She picks out a skein the color of the glassy, green sea, and starts again.


	9. Chapter 9

The Burrow feels empty. Charlie and George still haunt the house, but move so quietly from room to room as if to seem like they aren’t here at all. Percy never misses a meal, following his father to and from work like a shadow. Molly splits her time between the Burrow and Andromeda’s, helping with Teddy.

Harry keeps telling himself he needs to go over there too, to help out with his godson, but over and over again he ends up at Hogwarts instead. Ron still goes with him most days. Hermione comes sometimes too, disappearing to talk to McGonagall, coming back looking pale-faced and loaded down with books.  

A joke about Hermione asking to be set with summer homework hovers on his tongue but never quite manages to emerge.

The only real difference, Harry has to admit to himself, is Ginny not being here. He knows if he goes down into the kitchen in the middle of the night, there is no chance of running into her.

It shouldn’t make that much of a difference.

Harry does his best to keep his promise to her anyway, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, but not getting up. Not going downstairs. Not watching the road. It still feels like a terrible itch he’s not letting himself scratch, and that drives him crazy some nights.

He moves back into Ron’s room so Charlie and George can have Bill’s room, but also so it isn’t so quiet. Ron doesn’t question it, too grateful to get rid of Percy as a roommate, and Harry has to wonder how much of that is because Harry is less likely to comment when Ron disappears mysteriously from time to time.

A fine pair they make.

Staring at the ceiling, Harry’s ears strain for any noise, the silence so complete it almost sounds like static. Some nights he actually dozes back off before Ron returns, slinking back into his bed while Harry pretends not to notice.

It’s getting easier.

In the morning, Harry and Ron Apparate into Hogsmeade as usual, both quiet and only half awake. The village is mostly rebuilt at this point, though many of the shop fronts are boarded up and abandoned, including Zonko’s and Madam Puddifoot’s.

Rosmerta waves at them as they pass by, her broom working its way across the porch in a cloud of dust.

They wave back, heading up the road towards Hogwarts.

“I’m worried about Hermione,” Ron says when they’re about halfway there.

“Yeah?” Harry says, yawning and scratching at the back of his head.

Ron comes to a stop in the road, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Look. She’d kill me for saying anything…”

Harry turns so he’s facing him. “What?”

Ron is still for a moment, before he bursts out, hands flapping. “Haven’t you wondered why she hasn’t done anything about her parents yet?”

It takes a moment for that to even register, and Harry feels like an arse, because her parents have honestly been the furthest thing from his mind.

Ron peers up at him. “You know she doesn’t have anything. Not a knut. If my parents weren’t letting her stay with us, she’d have nowhere. Her entire family has forgotten she even exists.”

Christ. How could he have not have realized any of that?

“I hate to ask you…” Ron says, cheeks red, and part of that, Harry can see, is his inability to help her himself.

“You shouldn’t have to ask,” Harry says, voice rough. He should have bloody noticed.  “I’ll talk to Bill. Get an account set up or something.”

Ron looks relieved. “Thanks, mate.”

Harry shakes his head. She did that to her parents to keep them safe. But she wouldn’t have needed to if it weren’t for him. And if she hadn’t come with him and Ron… Harry can’t see a way they could have pulled any of this off.

He kicks at a rock in the path. “This is literally the least I can do.”

Ron snorts. “’Bout time you did something useful.”

Harry rolls his eyes, butting his shoulder into Ron’s in retaliation as they start walking back up the road.  

Ron shoves him back, and Harry inexplicably feels a grin spread over his face.

They walk a little further before Harry says, “Otherwise, things are good? You know, with Hermione?”

They haven’t talked about it much, but it shouldn’t be like that. Not between them.

“Yeah,” Ron says, ears red, but expression pleased. “It’s been good.”

Harry nods. “Good.”

“We don’t even fight so much anymore,” he says, brow furrowing.

“Behold the power of a good snog.”

Ron laughs. “I may still like to deliberately provoke her from time to time. There’s something about the way she looks when she’s mad…”

Harry grimaces. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Ron turns to look at him. “She frets about you feeling left out.”

“Well, there are some things I definitely _want_ to be left out of, thank you very much.”

Ron laughs. “That’s what I said!”

This feels good, and he wonders how they let it get strange in the first place. He supposes that may be his fault.

“I’m really happy for you. If I forgot to say that.”

Ron nods, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “Thanks, mate.”

When Harry gets back to the Burrow that evening, he writes Bill a letter, no matter how tempting it is to pop over to Shell Cottage and just ask in person. His intentions aren’t exactly unselfish, so he forces himself to sit on the impulse.

_Say hi to Fleur and Ginny for me_ , he can’t resist adding at the end.

Bill writes back saying he’ll look into getting funds transferred to an account in Hermione’s name that can be accessed from Australia.

He doesn’t mention Ginny.

*     *     *

At dinner, a large owl bursts in, landing in front of Harry. Everyone scrambles to right glasses and bowls, the owl eventually tucking its wings in and lifting its leg.

Harry reaches out, untying the missive. Before he can even think of offering anything to the owl, it takes off, the tip of its wing batting Ron in the face.

Ron waves his arms, making a loud sound of complaint.

“Who is it from?” Hermione asks as she pulls a small feather free of Ron’s hair.

Harry flips the letter over, and he doesn’t know who he thinks it may be from, just finds himself disappointed when he sees the return sender information.

“The Secretary of Information?” he reads off. “What is that?” He’s never even heard of that position before.

“One of the newest departments at the Ministry,” Arthur says, expression strangely neutral.

“Doing what?” Ron asks.

Arthur and Percy share a look. “Disseminating information to the public,” Arthur says, sounding like he’s reading off a report.

Percy is the one to shift in his chair. “Creating a public image of the Ministry to disseminate, more like,” he says.

Ron frowns, leaning into Harry to look at the letter. “Well, so what does he want? To make a poster of your face?”

Harry rolls his eyes, skimming down the letter. “It’s an invitation to attend the trials.”

“A summons?” Hermione says, looking alarmed as she leans across Ron.

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” He hands it off to her.

She reads it, brow smoothing as she finishes. “You’re right. It’s just an invitation.” She hands it back. “A rather long-winded and eloquent one.”

“A personal invitation?” Ron asks. “Look how important you are.”

Harry snorts. “I’m not sure why he’d even want me there. I don’t have much to add.” His focus was pretty narrow the last nine months.

“You’re Harry Potter,” Percy says.

They look up at him.

“I think we’re all pretty clear on that one, Perce,” Ron says, but Harry’s more interested in the knowing look Molly and Arthur are sharing. “Though maybe the Secretary of Information wanted to make sure we were clear on that. Important information.”

“The point is,” Percy says, looking annoyed by Ron’s levity, “if Harry attends, it will be taken as a sign of his support. And arguably his support is more important than anyone else’s right now.”

Harry glances at Arthur.

“Many people have lost faith in the Ministry,” Arthur admits. “To the public it looks like they didn’t do anything to stop the war, or in fact encouraged it.”

“Which is true,” Harry says.

Arthur nods. “Which is true.”

“You were the only one who did anything about it,” Percy says.  

“That is _not_ true,” Harry points out. Besides what Ron and Hermione did, there were also tons of other people who were resisting, helping people get out of the way. The Order, Potterwatch, even the students at Hogwarts.

Percy shrugs. “It doesn’t matter what’s true. It only matters what it appears to be.”

His voice is obviously bitter, and Harry gets that he’s speaking from experience. Appearances were enough to make him turn on his entire family after all.

“A single hero is easier to believe in than a complex system.” Percy gestures at the letter. “The Secretary of Information understands that better than most.”

Harry looks back down at the letter. Not a simple invitation after all. He can see it now, the manipulative edge to the letter. It is clearly important to him that Harry show up.

_To give themselves the illusion that they can actually control anything._

“So he’s trying to use me.”

Percy shrugs. “One could interpret it that way.”

“What’s another way to interpret it?” Harry says, feeling his temper spike.

“Disseminating information to the public,” Hermione repeats, and that somehow doesn’t sound as benign as it used to.

Harry clenches his jaw, putting the letter down on the table. “And if I don’t support the trials? If I think the Ministry is making a mistake, the way they are handling them?”

Percy doesn’t look particularly surprised to hear it. “Well, you can publicly state that. To the press if you like. Or in a letter to the Minister.”

“But?” Harry asks.

“That will put the Ministry on the defensive.”

Harry lets out a humorless huff. “Meaning what?”

“Discrediting you in the press,” Hermione guesses. After all, that’s how they’ve come after him before.

Percy doesn’t deny it.  

“Well,” Harry says, sitting back. “I’m so pleased to see that we’ve all come so far.”

“Kingsley wouldn’t really let that happen, would he?” Ron asks.

“You assume he has the power to stop it,” Hermione says, her expression thoughtful as she considers Arthur and Percy. “Does he?”

Arthur picks up his cup, turning it in his hands. “The Wizengamot is an independent branch. The Minister may advise, but not dictate.”

Which explains why he hasn’t tried to stop the trials, but doesn’t answer whether or not he’ll let Harry get defamed.

“And the Department of Information?” Hermione presses.

Ron is the one to answer, no longer looking amused. “Doesn’t take a bloody Secretary to find ways to get information to the press, even if he was forbidden to by his boss.” He looks at his dad. “Right?”

“I suppose it wouldn’t,” Arthur admits.

Harry shakes his head with exasperation. “So I go, and they use that as evidence that I trust the Ministry and everyone else should as well. Or I say I don’t like it and they run around making up stories about me to show that I’m the one that shouldn’t be trusted.”

It’s aggravating, not being able to just be a person, but always a symbol.

_A very useful tool._

“Or you can simply not go,” Percy says. “That will speak loudly enough for itself, I imagine.”

Harry considers that, crossing his arms over his chest. “And if I don’t go, and they get it wrong? If they do something I could have stopped by being there?”  

“Harry, mate,” Ron says, turning to look at him with wide eyes. “The fate of the entire bloody world isn’t yours to shoulder.”

It’s felt like it though, still does, and he doesn’t know if that makes him an arrogant prick or what.

Hermione looks slightly more understanding. “I used to feel that way when I was a child,” she says. “When we were on long road trips. I used to stare and stare at the road ahead, like maybe if I looked away for even a moment, the car would crash.”

That isn’t what this is, is it?

“We know things,” Harry points out. “Things no one else does.”

Percy looks intrigued, but to his credit, he doesn’t ask.

“If you’re really worried,” Hermione says, “then I’ll go.”

“And me,” Ron says, looking at her. “We’ll take it in turns.”

It doesn’t seem fair. That they should have to go while he stays away.

“We aren’t celebrities,” Ron reminds him with an easy smile. “No one will even notice we’re there.”

Harry can’t argue with that, and it’s just as messed up as everything else, that his absence will speak louder than their presence.

“Harry?” Hermione presses.

He eventually nods, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

Arthur is still watching them all over the rim of his cup.

“You think we’re making a mistake?” Harry asks.

Arthur simply smiles. “You aren’t a boy anymore, Harry. I assume if you want my advice, you will ask for it.”

“And if I did ask?”

“I’d say your instincts have always served you well. There’s no reason to start doubting them now.”

“Well,” Molly says, pushing to her feet. “I think that’s just enough about that. Who wants dessert?”

*     *     *

Hermione helps Harry pen a polite but vague response to the Secretary, saying that unfortunately Harry is busy elsewhere and will be unable to attend.

In response, he gets a letter full of understanding, but also a reiterated hope that he might be able to make the time.

The second half of the letter is most startling.

“Listen to this,” Harry says. “ _It has also come to my attention that you aspire to one day be an Auror. It is unfortunate that your last year at Hogwarts was left incomplete, and that you were never afforded the opportunity to take your NEWTs. Clearly this was through no fault of your own. I would be more than happy to speak on your behalf to Robards on perhaps getting the Auror qualifications waived for you. After all, someone of your talents and accomplishments would certainly be a credit to the Ministry.”_

“Well,” Ron says. “If anyone should get a free pass, it’s you, mate.”

Part of Harry wants to accept, to run right over and sign up. It’s what he’s always wanted, isn’t it?

But there is also this other voice at the back of his head, reminding him that things aren’t always what they seem.

“Yes,” Harry says, “because I am sure he’s doing it out of the goodness of his heart.”

Hermione lets out a soft snort of derision. “He’s clearly trying to trade for your cooperation.”

Harry’s shoulders drop. It’s completely stupid to think that things were easier back when he had Voldemort to focus on, isn’t it?

Ron taps his fingers on the table. “What if it’s more than that?”

“What do you mean?” Hermione says.

“I was just thinking,” Ron says. “If Harry is training to be an Auror, wouldn’t that mean he works for the Ministry?”

“Technically,” Hermione says. “You think having Harry work for the Ministry would send the same message of trust as going to the trials?”

“Sure,” Ron says with a shrug. “Or couldn’t he just get ordered to go to the trials? Then he wouldn’t have a choice.”

That feels like something Harry is far too familiar with.

He sighs, putting the letter aside.

Ron claps him on the shoulder. “Come on, mate. Leave it for now.”

They go downstairs just in time to see the fireplace flare. It’s Sunday, and Molly has made it clear that everyone within travelling distance is required to be at the Burrow for dinner.

Sure enough, Bill and then Fleur climb up out of the flames, everyone calling out greetings.

Fleur clucks her tongue, hands brushing the ash off Bill’s robes. He just laughs, catching her hands and wiping a smudge from her face.

“Bill,” Molly says, pulling him into a hug.

“Hey, Mum,” he says, wrapping his arms around her.

She glances around him at the dissipated flames. “No Ginny?” Molly asks.

Bill shakes his head, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “She just needs time, Mum. She’ll be fine.”

“Of course,” she says, but Harry can see she’s disappointed.

Molly turns to Fleur. “What a lovely frock,” she says, taking her hands.

Fleur squeezes her hands, pressing a kiss to Molly’s cheek. “Thank you.”

“Harry,” Bill says, patting him on the back. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Harry says.

“Yeah?” Bill says, giving him a look like he doesn’t believe it. “I hear the Secretary of Information is playing devil’s snare with you.”

Harry shrugs. “He offered to get me into Auror training without my NEWTs.”

Bill laughs. “Wow. He’s really going to do anything he can to get his claws into you, isn’t he?”

Harry wishes he could find it half so funny. “I guess so.”

“Yes, well. There’s a reason I would rather work with a bunch of Goblins than at the Ministry.” He glances over at Arthur and Percy who are greeting Fleur. “I’ve never been quite as good at swallowing my opinions. But then again, I’ve never been out to save the world.”

Harry frowns.

“Hey,” Bill says. “If being an Auror is really what you want, it’s not like you don’t deserve it.”

Harry wishes it were that easy. “It matters how you get there,” he says, knowing that probably sounds stupid.

Only Bill doesn’t seem to think so. “I suppose it does. Though not everyone sees it that way.”

“Let’s eat,” Ron says.

Harry pushes his food around his plate, glancing more than once at the fireless grate.

*     *     *

Ron and Hermione attend the first day of trials together, just to get the lay of the land. They come back looking tired and horrified, and Harry feels awful for making them do this.

“You were right,” Ron reports, collapsing back on the sofa. “It was a circus. Press and crowds…” He shakes his head.

“They did it in the full courtroom?”

Hermione nods wearily.

“What was it like?”

“I dunno,” Ron says with a shrug. “It just didn’t feel like they actually were trying to find anything out, you know? It was just like…”

“Entertainment,” Hermione says, lips pressed together. “And posturing.”

“Magic is might,” Harry mumbles.

Hermione gives him a sharp glance.

He sighs. “Why don’t I just…”

“No, Harry,” Hermione says. “You were right. We need to know what they are doing. I’m beginning to think if we really want things to change, the Wizengamot is the place to start.”  

There’s a tap at the window, and they turn to see an owl sitting on the sill. Ron heaves to his feet to pull the glass open.

Harry braces himself for another letter from the Secretary, but the owl heads straight for Hermione. In all of this, he almost forgot again.

“For me?” she asks, looking confused as to who might write to her.

It’s a brutal reminder that all she has in the world at the moment is in this room.

She reads through the letter, her brow furrowed.

“There must be some mistake,” she mutters. Only then her eyes widen. She spears Harry with a look, and he knows she’s already figured it out, even though he asked Bill to keep his name out of it.

“What did you do?” she asks, voice very nearly shrill.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry says.

She turns to Ron. “I told you not to say anything!”

Ron’s chin lifts. “I suppose I didn’t listen.”

She gets to her feet, and for a moment it looks like she’s going to lay in on him, but instead she throws herself at him, burying her face in his neck. They hold each other for a long moment.

Just when Harry is considering making a strategic retreat, she pulls back from Ron, turning her attention on him.

“You shouldn’t have done this,” she says, letter still clutched in her hand.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, always having known he might have to fight her on this. “I should have done it weeks ago.”

Her jaw tightens, and he can see that as much as she doesn’t like it, she can’t afford to refuse it. “I’ll pay you back.”

He doesn’t bother arguing, despite the fact that he has zero intention of taking a knut from her.

She hugs him, her fingers digging into his back. “Thank you.”

“Anything,” he says, because doesn’t she know that?

She pulls back, giving him a watery smile. Then she straightens up. “Oh, I have so many plans to make!”

She bustles off, Ron and Harry sharing amused smiles.

*     *     *

When it is clear that Harry has no intention of attending the trials, another letter arrives, this one far less effusive and layered with thinly veiled threats about ‘unhelpful opinions’ during a time of delicate recovery and unity.

“Wanker,” Harry says, shoving the letter aside.

He continues to spend all his time at Hogwarts, even as the work needing to be done continues to dwindle. Even Bill has returned to Gringotts, only popping back over to consult with McGonagall from time to time.

But at least at Hogwarts no one asks him annoying questions or watches his every move as if trying to interpret his opinions about things. It’s all very, “Hey, that thing needs to be fixed” and “Sure, I’ll get right on that.”

It’s nice not to have to think, really.

It passes the time.

By the time the next Sunday dinner rolls around, Harry and Ron can barely get Hermione to pull her face out of a book long enough to come to the table. Her every moment is spent reading about memory charms and writing letters to various government officials in Australia.

She’s talking about the various ecosystems on the continent when George talks across her.

“I’m re-opening the shop.”

Someone’s cutlery clatters against the edge of their plate as they all turn and look at him. Only Charlie doesn’t look astonished, his eyes taking in everyone’s reactions.

“Now, Georgie,” Molly says. “There’s no need to rush in—”

“I’m not rushing in,” George snaps. “And even if I was, so what? If I have to sit in this house any longer, I’m going to die too. And he’d never forgive me for that.”

“It’s only been a few weeks.”

George lets out a harsh laugh. “No. It’s been years and lifetimes and I am not letting this one last part of him I have left go.”

“But—” Molly says.

“Mum,” Charlie says, voice soft. “This is what he wants.”

She turns on him, her expression hard. “His health is far more important.”

“Mum,” Bill tries to say.

“It’s just a silly _shop_!” she shouts.

George slams both hands down on the table, his chair clattering to the floor behind him as he shoves to his feet.

Harry freezes, his entire body going still as his heart pounds away in his chest.

“Yes! It’s just a shop. And it’s all I fucking have left.”

“George,” Arthur says.

“No. I’m of age. So what you think doesn’t bloody matter. I’m opening the shop.”

He storms out of the house, a sharp crack echoing in a few moments later.

Molly turns to Charlie. “Go after him!”

Charlie doesn’t move, his hands flat on the table in front of him. “He has to be on his own at some point, Mum. I can’t shadow him for the rest of his life.”

“Well, I—” Molly sputters.

Arthur touches her hand. “Molly.”

Her face absolutely crumbles. “Clearly I am outnumbered,” she snaps, getting to her feet and turning for the stairs.

“Well,” Bill says in the following silence. “That went well.”

“I suppose this probably isn’t the best time to say that I’m going back to Romania,” Charlie says.

“Christ, Charlie,” Ron mutters.

Arthur looks around at all of them. “I know this has been hard. But this hasn’t been easy on your mother either,” he reminds them. “She loves you all very much.”

“We know, Dad,” Charlie says. “But we can’t all stay hidden away here forever. At some point life has to go on. Even if it feels like it shouldn’t.”

Fleur pushes to her feet. “Percy,” she says. “You will help me with the dishes.”

He scrambles to his feet, looking around at his brothers. “Of course.”

With that, the kitchen once more fills with the more familiar sounds of clattering plates and splashing water.

“Harry?” Hermione asks, leaning towards him.

He forces himself to unclench his hands, to ignore the instinct to stay as still as humanly possible. _Just stay still and don’t draw attention to yourself._

“You okay, mate?” Ron says.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I’m fine.”

*     *     *

In the following days, they all go into Diagon Alley to help George put the shop to rights. The abandoned building isn’t nearly as vandalized as the Burrow was, mostly thanks to some rather ingenious booby traps the twins left behind when they went into hiding. It still needs some work, even to just clear up dust and shunt out expired merchandise.

Lee and Katie are there as well, helping George create new stock.

People seem interested, various other old schoolmates of the twins dropping by to help, and despite the lingering gloom, an atmosphere of joviality starts to build. It’s not clearing up a decimated battleground or sitting through a funeral. It has the feeling of making something. It helps that various expired objects occasionally backfire on someone.

Ron spends nearly an hour with pink sparkles coating his hair.  

George almost cracks a smile. “An improvement on your looks,” he says.

Ron pretends annoyance, hands on his hips as he shakes his hair back like Fleur.

“Come on,” Lee says, grabbing his arm. “I’m pretty sure some pygmy puffs have been breeding under the floorboards.”

Someone snaps a picture that ends up in _The Daily Prophet_ , and there’s a lovely article about how the great and amazing Harry Potter thinks helping a ‘silly shop’ reopen is more important than the ongoing Ministry trials.

There is no doubt whose hand is behind the article, and it answers the question of whether or not the _Prophet_ is still in the service of the Ministry.

Though it’s still enough to make Harry wonder again if he’s made the right decision, if he should be speaking out about why he doesn’t like these trials. Especially if they are already giving him a hard time in the papers.

He doesn’t bring it up with Ron or Hermione. She’s focused on Australia and he’s focused on helping George, and Harry doubts either of them want to spend weeks rehashing his decisions.

Instead, he stops reading the papers and eventually stops going into Diagon Alley. The relative quiet of Hogwarts is a relief.

Ron stays to help George when he isn’t sitting in on trials, and Harry tells him he doesn’t mind.

Even the tent city on the slope of the lawn is dwindling, students returning home or moving in.

Like Charlie said, at some point life has to go on.

The castle has been declared officially free of dangerous lingering magics, at least as much as a place like Hogwarts ever can be. The mandrakes are all once again carefully potted, the devil’s snare ripped up and destroyed, and the lake shiny and clear. The burned-out parts of the lawns are coming up green again.

There’s plenty left to be done, most of the castle still in a shambles, but that work has a different feeling to it. Not quite as urgent, he supposes.

But maybe what he’s really been doing is putting off the inevitable.

It’s been at the back of his mind, the one last place to put to rights. Because if he doesn’t, there’s no one else to do it. He could leave it to someone else, but it feels too much like a betrayal to even tell anyone else about it, let alone let them work on it. Or maybe he just doesn’t feel like answering any questions about how he found it.

With a sigh, he turns, his feet taking him down a familiar path. Sliding through a narrow passage and leaning his way through a wall that is not quite as solid as it appears, Harry steps out into the hidden cloister.

It’s just as he remembers it, a huge broken beam slanting across the space, debris clogging the ground. He scans for any lingering curses or magics, but the room is clear. No fighting took place here.

It’s safe.

Climbing over the rocks, he steps out into the main space. It feels like it’s been ages since he was last in here, but it’s really only been a month and a half.

He starts with the small debris, gathering it all up and vanishing it. It takes most of the morning. He uncovers almost a dozen books in various states of readability, all of them Muggle novels. He stacks them carefully to one side. Once that is done, he repairs some of the glass and latticework as best he can, but until the central marble beam is fixed, there’s only so much that can be done.

Simple clearing and repair spells have no effect on the beam. Harry tries to lift it back in place, but the beam barely shifts, fine dust cascading down from the ceiling. He doesn’t know quite how long he tries, pouring more and more magic into the spell, over and over again, with no different effect—and he’s pretty sure he’s heard that as the definition of insanity. He still tries until he can’t anymore.

He curses under his breath, dropping his shaking wand arm. He sits down on a marble block.

Maybe it’s time to accept that some things never go back the way they were.

It’s late afternoon by the time he makes his way back into the main part of the castle. He runs into Hermione at the base of the stairs.

“Harry,” she says.

“Hey. Didn’t know you were here.”

“I just finished speaking to McGonagall.”

“Yeah?” Harry says, only half paying attention as they make their way outside.

“She said I could still sit the NEWTs in the spring, even if I don’t come back for seventh year.”

Harry stops, turning to look at her. For all that Harry has been spending all his time at the castle, the future has been the farthest from his mind.

“Oh,” he says, a bit stupidly.

The idea of Hermione missing a year of her schooling just seems…preposterous.

“It will take a lot of work and keeping a tight schedule, but she set me a reading list and an outline of the required outcomes, so I should be able to make it work.”

“Sure,” Harry says. “I just thought you’d want to come back.”

Her fingers pick at the edge of the book she’s got clutched to her chest. “Fixing what I’ve done to my parents,” she says, the words slow and careful like she’s handling something sharp and dangerous, “it’s going to be even more difficult than I thought. I don’t know how long it may take. Even if I left today…”

She shakes her head.

Even if she left today, Harry finishes internally, she would never make it back in time for the beginning of term.

“Ron’s said he’ll come with me,” she says, her cheeks blushing slightly. “To Australia.”

“Oh,” he says again, something squeezing across his chest.

It’s fine, he tells himself.

Hermione brushes her hair back from her face. “We hadn’t thought to go until the trials are done. It’s not like my parents will know the difference.” She gives him a very unsubtle look. “We hoped you would come too.”

She says it like she’s fully expecting him to say no, but Harry is far too focused on the rush of relief flooding his body.

“If you want to go back to Hogwarts, or if you’re going to try to work something out with Robards—”

“No,” Harry rushes to say. “I mean, I’d like to come with you. If I’m not, you know, getting in the way.”

“Really?” Hermione asks, looking pleased enough that he doesn’t think she’s just trying to make him feel included.

“If you really want me to.”

“Of course we do, Harry,” she says like he’s being dense. She shoves her books into his arms, digging around in her bag and pulling out what turns out to be a map of Australia. “Now what I was thinking…”

Harry holds her books and lets her rattle on, letting the details wash over him. He trusts her to tell him when he needs to do something.

They started this together, they may as well finish it that way as well.

*     *     *

For the next week, Hermione does her best to bury them in paperwork. They’re going to travel by airplane so they won’t have to wrangle their way through twenty different international Floo sites.

Ron looks equally excited and terrified by the prospect. Harry’s never been on a plane himself either. Though he is slightly more confident in their ability to stay up in the sky than Ron.

“It’s perfectly safe,” Hermione says.

“If you say so,” Ron says, looking dubious about what he describes as tin cans flinging through the air.

“Okay,” Hermione says, pointing to seats at the table.

Ron and Harry share looks, but obediently sit. There’s no derailing Hermione when she is in planning mode.

“Passports,” she explains, placing a stack of forms and a ballpoint pen on the table in front of each of them.

Ron rubs a finger wonderingly over the tip of the pen, a thin ink line appearing on his skin. “Huh,” he says.

Hermione catches Harry’s eye, and he bites down on his lip not to laugh.

“And visas,” she says, putting another set of forms down in front of them. “Now, I’ve already charmed an identity card for Ron. Harry has a NINO like me, so I was able to skip that.”

“A what?” Ron asks.

“A National Insurance—”

“Just a way for the Muggle government to keep track of us all,” Harry says, not really wanting to get into a lecture on the National Health Service. “Everyone has one.”

“Now the forms,” Hermione says, shooting Harry an annoyed look. “I need them all filled out so I can mail them off.”

There must be at least twenty pages.

“What, now?” Ron says.

“Yes. It’s going to take a while to get them back and if we want to leave on time there is no time to waste.”

Ron is looking more horrified now than when he was contemplating flying in a plane. “Well, uh, as fun as this looks, I promised George I’d get to the shop early.” He gives Hermione a quick kiss on the cheek. “You can fill these out for me, right, love?”

He’s out the door before Hermione can form a response.

“Honestly,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest even as she smiles.

Harry is both impressed and feeling abandoned by his best mate, the wanker.

“I don’t suppose there’s any way I could get away with that,” Harry says.

She turns her gaze on him. “Don’t even try.”

Dutifully, he picks up his pen. “So noted.”

They work in silence for a while, Hermione periodically glancing at the clock. She looks swamped and tense and it reminds him of cramming sessions and endless nights in the common room.

“We’ll get it done,” he says.

She gives him a wan smile, running a hand across her forehead. “I have to get to the Ministry.”

“Right,” he says. The trials are still ongoing, with no end in sight.

Harry pulls the cap off and on the pen a few times. “Have they scheduled the Malfoys yet?”

Hermione hums under her breath, not looking up from Ron’s forms. “Lucius Malfoy is today.”

“And Draco?” he asks.

Hermione looks up from the form, her brow furrowing. “I think his mother is tomorrow and he’s the day after.”

Harry nods, tapping his pen against the table. “Why don’t you let me take care of those?”

“What? But we decided…”

Harry leans back in his seat, not quite meeting her eye. “I think my point’s already been made, don’t you? No one will care if I show up for couple of them. It could give you a bit more time to get this stuff done.”

“Harry,” she says. “What are you planning?”

He drops his pen to the table. “Who says I’m planning anything?”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Don’t pretend you don’t have a long history of doing rash things when it comes to Malfoy.”

Harry feels anger climb his throat. “Excuse me?”  

“He’s going to be punished, Harry. There’s no need to go and gloat.”

“This isn’t about revenge, Hermione!”

“Are you sure?” she says, spearing him with a knowing look.

“Aren’t you going to be late?” he shoots back.

She glances at the clock. “Yes. But we _are_ going to talk about this later.”

Not if he can help it.

He rather skillfully manages to avoid her for the rest of the day, mostly by working late and then hiding until Ron distracts her.

He comes downstairs the next morning dressed in his formal robes.

“Harry—” Hermione says from where she is already waiting to ambush him.

“Hermione,” Harry parrots back.

Ron just looks between them like someone who doesn’t want to get caught in the crossfire.  

“Fine!” Hermione exclaims. “Like there’s any stopping you. Do what you like.”

Harry turns to Ron, ready for another fight, but Ron just lifts his hands and shakes his head. “Hey, if this means I don’t have to go, I don’t bloody care who goes. Have fun with it. Give Malfoy a little two-finger salute for me.”

Harry shakes his head, swiping a piece of toast before walking out beyond the wards and Apparating.

Walking out into the huge atrium, Harry is aware of conversations stopping mid-sentence. As his luck has it, there is a photographer loitering around, probably to get reactions to the ongoing trials.

Harry ignores them snapping pictures of him, checking in as a visitor and taking the elevators down. He walks the same path he took as a fifteen-year-old justifying using magic in front of his Muggle cousin.

Only this time Dumbledore won’t be sweeping in to help him argue his case.

Taking a breath, he walks into the courtroom.

For a moment, he could be back in Dumbledore’s memories. Only the people are different. A large cage sits in the middle of the floor in front of the full membership of the Wizengamot. The new Chief is someone Harry doesn’t know, a stern-faced witch with dark peppery hair. A few seats over is Robards, his gaze impassive on Harry.

“Mr. Potter,” a blond wizard in impeccable robes says, appearing by his side. “I see you managed to find the time to attend.”

Harry studies the man, having no doubt this is his favorite pen pal, the Secretary of Information. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

His smile slips just slightly. “Trenton Macmillan,” he says, holding out his hand.

Despite the voice at the back of his head telling him not to borrow trouble, or maybe _because_ everyone in the room is watching carefully, Harry can’t quite get himself to take the offered hand.

“Yes,” Harry says, hands hanging by his sides. “The Secretary of Information, right? Well, I’m sure you have more important things to do than talk to me.”

Macmillan drops his hand, his smile still plastered to his face. “I certainly do.” With a curt nod of his head, he walks away.

It takes a great deal of effort not to roll his eyes. Glancing around, he finds himself a seat on the edge of the courtroom, doing his best to ignore the whispers and stares as he goes.

As the trial begins, people seem to forget all about Harry in the face of the salacious details about Malfoy Manor being used by Voldemort as his seat of power, the long history of Lucius Malfoy’s career as a Death Eater.

Narcissa, it is revealed, never took the Dark Mark. But it is still clear that she aided the cause.

Harry waits, and when they have run through their list of witnesses and accounts, he pushes to his feet. He’s vaguely aware of people sucking in a breath, nudging each other as every eye swivels to look at him.

“Mr. Potter?” the Chief says, giving him a beady glare.

“I have something to add, if I may.”

She considers him for a long moment, before nodding to one of the Aurors. It’s not one he knows, and she doesn’t say anything as she leads him to the floor of the courtroom.

From behind the bars, Narcissa regards him with a cold, impassive face. It’s the first time he’s seen her since the Forest, and for a moment the memory seems to close in on him.

He looks away, returning his attention to the Chief.

“What do you wish to add, Mr. Potter?”

He clears his throat, trying to ignore the weight of all those eyes watching him.

_Then don’t let them._

“During the battle at Hogwarts,” he says, “Narcissa Malfoy saved my life.”

The court burst out into whispers.

The Chief quiets them down with a glare. “How did she do that?”

Harry hesitates, not intending to go into any details. “The short version is that there

was a time that I was completely vulnerable to Voldemort.”

There’s a ripple of horror through the room, and he doesn’t spare time wondering at the lingering fear of the name.

“He could have had me killed easily enough,” he continues. “My life was quite literally in Narcissa Malfoy’s hands. And when it came down to it, she lied to Voldemort and saved my life.”

“Can you tell us more specifics?”

“No.”

Her eyebrow lifts in surprise at his flat out refusal, but after regarding him for a long moment seems to realize that he isn’t going to be pushed.

“Why do think she did that?” she asks.

Harry lifts one shoulder. “I think she probably did it to save her son.”

“Not exactly altruistic.”

Harry lifts his chin, feeling a rush of heat up the back of his neck. “A mother willing to die for her child? You call that _selfish_?”

The Chief looks baldly back at him. “If it’s at the cost of another mother’s son? Then yes.”

Harry takes a breath, reining his temper back in. “Look. I just thought the court should know that when it came down to it, Mrs. Malfoy turned on Voldemort. That without that choice, I might not be here. Without that choice, everything could have ended very differently. For whatever that’s worth.” He shrugs. “She made that choice.”

He turns and walks back towards the gate, and Narcissa hisses his name as he passes.

He pauses, looking at her.

“Did it occur to you that your _mercy_ may damn me? Now if they send me to Azkaban, I won’t survive long as a traitor.”

He honesty hadn’t considered that, and he thinks it must show on his face, the way she hisses under her breath.

She grabs the bars, her chest heaving as she leans towards him, and now he can see it, what being in Azkaban has done to her already, in just a matter of weeks. “And Draco? Does he get your mercy?”

Harry forces himself to hold her gaze. “He gets the same thing you did. The truth.”

She lets out an unsteady breath. Releasing the bars, she drops back in her seat. “Whatever benefit that will give us.”

Harry retakes his seat.

The next day’s trial goes much the same, only this time with far more people watching Harry, as if waiting for the moment he will finally decide to speak. Like with Narcissa’s trial, he waits until the end.

He stands.

“Something to add today, Mr. Potter?” the Chief asks.

He nods, moving out onto the floor. He doesn’t look at Draco this time, just stands in front of the judges and explains Draco’s role in the death of Dumbledore, his fear, the threats hanging over his head. The way he couldn’t do it in the end. How he didn’t turn him over at Malfoy Manor, even when it might have benefitted him. Even in the Room of Requirement, Harry could see that Draco didn’t want anyone to get killed. He wanted his wand back. He wanted a sense of control back.

And they were kids.

_Everything always looks different from the other side._

“Draco Malfoy may be a lot of things, but he’s not a murderer.”

With that, Harry turns for the gate. This time, he can’t stop himself from looking over at Draco, taking in the gaunt lines of his face, the way his robes are ripped and dusty. Azkaban has not treated him well.

His expression, however, is the same as always--a hard sneer.

“I don’t need you to save me, Potter,” he spits.

Harry comes to a stop, ignoring the crowds of people and the members of the Wizengamot. He regards Draco and thinks about why he really did this. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not doing it for you.”

Turning his back on him, he walks out of the courtroom.

*     *     *

At the end of the week, the court decisions are released in a brief. Hermione brings it home with her, poring over the testimony she missed and the sentences that have been handed down.

“So what’d they get?” Ron asks.

Hermione lowers the files, looking at Harry. “Lucius Malfoy was sent to Azkaban. But Narcissa is being placed under house arrest for five years. They took her wand and she has to do service.”

“Like doing labor by hand?” Ron asks. He huffs under his breath. “That’ll be interesting.”

Hermione is still regarding Harry.

“And Malfoy?” Ron asks.

Hermione flips a page. “They treated him as a juvenile offender. They extended his Trace until he’s twenty-one.”

“Meaning he can’t use magic?” he asks.

Hermione shakes his head. “Not outside of Hogwarts.”

“Wait, Hogwarts?” Ron says, sitting up. “He’s bloody going back to Hogwarts?”

She nods. “It’s part of his sentencing. He has to pass with good standing, including Muggle Studies. If he fails or gets expelled, he goes to Azkaban.”

“Christ, talk about incentive to study,” Ron mutters.

“Do you think he deserved to go to Azkaban instead?” Harry asks.

“Well, he’s an inbred tosser and a complete cunt, really,” Ron says.

“Ron,” Hermione chastises.

“What? He is!” Ron defends. “But if they threw everyone who’s a cunt into Azkaban, they’d get overrun. I suppose having the Trace for-bloody-ever is probably humiliating enough. Almost enough to make me wish I was gonna be there to see it.” He lifts his finger, jabbing it towards Harry. “But I can tell you I am not going out of my way to save his slimy arse ever again.”

Harry laughs under his breath. “Deal.”

Hermione closes the file. “Harry. I’m sorry. I thought…”

“I know what you thought,” he says, voice hard.

She closes her mouth, looking downright miserable. As she should.

Harry sighs. “I suppose even I can learn my lessons eventually.”

“I am sorry.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not like you’re wrong. I’ve made an arse of myself over this way too many times.”

“Blimey, Harry,” Ron says. “You’re not going to go all adult on us now are you?”

“I doubt there is any chance of that,” Harry says, pushing to his feet. “Now let’s go steal some dessert and eat it before we have dinner.”

“A rebel!” Ron crows, popping up to his feet and wrapping an arm around Harry before digging his knuckles in against his scalp.

“Get off me, arsehole,” Harry shouts through his laughter, shoving him away.  

If a pie disappears from the larder that afternoon, someone somehow managing to undermine Molly’s most impressive wards, well, Harry will never tell.

 


	10. Chapter 10

“Ugh,” Ron complains. “It’s still dark out.”

Harry winces, and not just because of the pain in his toe from kicking the bloody dresser as he tried to sneak about in the dark without waking Ron. Behold his success. “Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

“Where you going, you nut?” he mumbles.

“I’m meeting Hagrid, remember?”

“Right,” Ron says, his eyes already slipping back shut. “Give those spider arseholes a kick from me.”

Harry slips out the door, deciding it’s probably time to move back into Bill’s room now that Charlie and George have moved out, even if just so Ron doesn’t have to put up with his predawn bumbling.

Creeping downstairs, he grabs a quick bite before going outside. Hagrid always offers him something before they set out, but Harry knows better than to rely on food from Hagrid.

Apparating to Hogsmeade, he moves through the slumbering village and up the path to the school. Hogwarts is definitely starting to pull itself together, looking more like a school rather than a war zone. The forest is another story.

Kingsley still hasn’t sent any Aurors to patrol the Forbidden Forest, so Harry and Hagrid do it. They start early in the morning, when the Forest is most calm, according to Hagrid.

And so it is, at least sixty percent of the time. When it’s not, it’s…well, things tend to get interesting really fast. Harry would be lying if he didn’t say there was something familiar and easy about those moments, his brain turning off as everything becomes about doing and making it through.

At least the Centaurs no longer seem inclined to kill Harry on sight. So there’s that.  

Outside the hut, Hagrid greets him with a beaming smile and a crossbow over his shoulder. They fall into step next to each other, Harry quickening his stride to keep up with him as Fang butts him gently in greeting from behind.

Harry absently rubs at the enormous dog’s head, getting a handful of slobber in return.

“What d’you say we have a little visit with Grawp on the way back?” Hargrid asks as they step into the trees.

Harry nods. “Sounds great.”

It feels good to stretch his legs. He’s spent so much time here lately that the darker memories have started to fade, being replaced with quiet mornings spent walking with Hagrid, the strange beauty to be found in a slowly waking landscape.

Not that he lets himself relax too much. Not with the amount of things in here that would be perfectly happy to make a snack of him.

Harry tends to get back from their patrols late morning, leaving just enough time to clean up, eat lunch, and have a bit of a rest before joining Ron at the shop for a few hours. He’s found that if he slips in the back and focuses mostly on helping George test prototypes, he attracts little to no attention.

It passes the days.

Even Hermione has been finding herself at a bit of standstill these days. All of their forms have been sent off, the tickets purchased. Now they are just waiting to leave for Australia. She’s taken over going to all of the last of trials herself, leaving Ron more time to help George, especially now that Charlie has gone back to Romania.

Of course, it also gives her ample time to focus on Harry and his many ‘problematic habits,’ as she puts it. She’s made her opinion of his morning jaunts with Hagrid very clear. Mostly after that one time they had a bit of a run-in with an injured giant. Harry didn’t come back from that completely unscathed.

Ever since Hermione has been harping on him about how much time he’s spending at Hogwarts, how much he’s sleeping (or not), her eyes on him at every meal like she’s monitoring his intake.

It’s completely infuriating.   

Still, Harry does his best to keep his temper, knowing she has a lot on her mind.

_Worrying about you is easier than thinking about what it’s going to be like when she sees her parents again,_ Ron told him once.

“I’m just trying to help Hagrid get it all done before we leave,” Harry tries to reassure her.

She just narrows her eyes and doesn’t look convinced.

Fortunately today the morning passes with no incidents other than accidentally coming across a rather cross family of pixies. So besides being liberally covered in the mud they’d taken great glee in chucking at him, he’s untouched. Nothing for Hermione to get upset about.

A good day, all in all.  

Harry charms off as much mud and dried dirt as he can, but he’s still a bit of a mess when he trudges back into the Burrow near lunch time. Ron is sitting at the table in the kitchen, which isn’t completely unusual at this hour, only today he isn’t sitting alone.

Harry comes to a stop, the door swinging shut with a whump behind him.

“Harry,” Ron says. “Good timing. Ginny’s come back.”

“I can see that,” Harry says, because there she clearly is, sitting at the table.

Stupidly, he isn’t really prepared for that, for her to suddenly be here. It’s a strange wave of disorientation, and only part of that is because her hair has been cut really short, blunt about her ears. She’s also looking up at him, all windblown and relaxed despite the tense edge to the smile she’s giving him.  

“Uh, hi,” he says, realizing he’s been quiet too long. “Welcome back.”

Her smile slips a bit at what sounds even to his own ears as a rather lackluster greeting. “Thanks.”

He shouldn’t feel this off-balance. Of course she would come back eventually. It’s her home. He’s just gotten used to her not being here, he supposes. It’s been a month, after all.

“I’m, uh, going to get cleaned up,” he says, gesturing towards the stairs.

“Good,” Ron calls after him. “Because you stink!”

Harry doesn’t pause to look back, just beats a hasty retreat up the stairs.

He’s not running away, he tells himself.

*     *     *

Ginny comes down her second morning back at the Burrow to a kitchen full of people. It’s loud and cramped and there’s an incredible amount of food on the table, and it couldn’t be different from the quiet minimalism of Shell Cottage.

But it’s home.

There’s a chorus of ‘good mornings’ when she’s noticed. She grabs an empty seat next to Ron, and there’s a plate in front of her before she even gets fully settled.

“Thanks, Mum,” she says, looking down at the plate piled high with food.

Molly pats her on the head. “Good to have you home, dear.”

Arthur looks up over the edge of his newspaper, winking at her.

Ginny gives him the best smile she can muster, tucking her hair behind her ear. She’s still getting used to it falling in her face all the time. She’s going to have to invest in a serious amount of barrettes or something.

Absently listening to the hum of voices around her, she tucks into her breakfast.

“Mum,” Ginny says after she’s made a dent in her food and there’s a break in conversation. “I was wondering if it would be okay for Tobias to come over tomorrow?”

Her eyebrows lift, something slightly speculative in her expression. “Of course,” she says just a beat too late. “How long has he been back?”

“Only about a week, but he says if he doesn’t get away for a few hours he’s going to commit patricide.”

Ron snorts into his breakfast.

Arthur sets down his newspaper, pushing to his feet. “I’ll adjust the wards for him tonight, okay?”

“Thanks, Dad,” she says.  

Hermione and Percy get up as well, the three of them bustling off to the Ministry.

In the following quiet, Ginny eyes the empty seat across from her.

“Harry having a bit of a lie-in?” she asks, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

Ron lets out a snort. “That would be a first. He’s probably been gone for hours already.”

“Gone where?”

He shrugs. “He’s helping Hagrid with something in the forest.”

Ginny puts down her cup. “The Forbidden Forest?”

Ron nods. “Apparently there’s a bunch of mad creatures running about. Hagrid’s intent on saving them all of course, and Harry’s barmy enough to try to help him. Personally, I’m beginning to think he can’t go a day without putting his life in danger at least once. It’s a bloody addiction.”

Ginny frowns. She can’t believe he would willingly go back in there after what happened, let alone day after day. Is he trying to prove some sort of point?

“You don’t go with him?” she asks.

Ron shrugs. “I quite like my limbs where they are. Besides, I only function in daylight. He usually comes by the shop in the afternoon to help out, even though he hates all the attention he gets.”

Despite wanting to know more, Ginny lets it drop, not wanting to make Ron curious about her interest. Just another thing to puzzle out, like the way Harry wouldn’t so much as look at her at dinner last night.

Not that she necessarily blames him for that.

“What are you going to do today, dear?” Molly asks, sitting down across from her with a cup of tea.

“I thought I might go in with Ron. See how the shop is coming along. Say hi to George. If that’s okay.”

It doesn’t rankle any less, having to ask permission and be supervised, but at least now she’s thinking straight enough to put on the show.

Sure enough, Molly seems relieved that Ginny isn’t trying to run off on her own. “All right,” she agrees.

“Ron can side-along me,” she says. “Right?”

Ron gives her a dubious look, but doesn’t tell her no. “It’s your digestive system,” he says.

“Great,” Ginny says, getting to her feet. “I’ll just grab my things.”

Upstairs she carefully packs a small satchel, meeting Ron out front. She takes his arm.

“Ready?” he asks.

She nods, gripping his arm tighter and steeling herself.

They appear a moment later in the Apparition area just a few shops down from the the twins’ shop.

“Everything in one piece?” Ron asks.

Ginny nods, swallowing back against the disorientation roiling in her stomach. She is going to be very thankful to be able to do this stuff for herself soon.

“Can’t say I didn’t warn you,” Ron says, looking indecently amused.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says. Once she’s recovered enough to risk it, she presses a kiss to his cheek. “Thanks. I’ll see you later!”

“Wait, what?” Ron asks, gaping after her.

She gestures in the opposition direction from the shop. “I have a few things to take care of.”

“Bloody hell, Gin! You told Mum you were going to the shop.” He looks completely shocked, which considering the completely barmy things he’s gotten up to over the years, is a bit rich in her opinion.

“And so I will,” she says. “Eventually.”

“I’m not lying for you with Mum!”

Ginny crosses her arms over her chest. “Yes, you will. If you don’t want another lecture yourself.”

He scowls, clearly knowing she’s right.

Ginny relents. “I promise, I’ll be back in an hour. Two at the most. I just…need to take care of a few things. It’s important.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. But if you get yourself into trouble, don’t come running to me, ‘cause I am not going to help.”

Ginny’s never heard a bigger lie in her life.

Ducking into Knockturn Alley, Ginny heads for the bookshop. There aren’t many people about, the few who are stopping to watch as she passes. Ginny just looks straight ahead and keeps walking.

Pushing the door to the shop open, Ginny calls out, “Antonia?”

“Ginny,” she says, stepping out from the back room.

“Hey,” she replies, pulling the book and box out of her bag and placing them on the counter. “I wanted to get these back to you. I’m sorry it took so long.”

Antonia ignores the items, instead taking a moment to look Ginny over. Reaching out, she tweaks the end of Ginny’s hair.

Ginny looks away. “I know. Not my best look.”

Antonia smiles. “It will grow back.”

“It will,” Ginny says. No doubt sooner than she deserves.

Antonia scoops up the items, putting them back.

“So,” Ginny says, watching her move about the shop. “Paris?”

Antonia smiles. “It was lovely.”

“Oh, really?” Ginny asks. “Lucas his normal amusing self?”

Antonia shrugs. “I barely saw him, he was so busy at the institute.”

“Then whatever did you find to do with yourself?”

Antonia is far too controlled to do anything like blush, but Ginny can see it in her eyes all the same. “Oh, I managed just fine.”

“So what’s their name?” Ginny asks, leaning on the counter. “I want copious details.”  

Antonia laughs.

*     *     *

The next day, Ginny is waiting out in the garden when Tobias arrives.

He walks up to the front path. He has a cane clutched in one hand, his gait slow and methodical, but he’s _walking_.

She waits, forcing herself to let him come to her.

Once near enough, he looks her up and down. “You look better,” he says.

“You don’t,” she says. “But I guess they fixed your leg and not your face.”

His eyes widen, staring back at her in shock for a long moment before he starts to laugh. “Come here and give me a hug, you arsehole.”

She steps into his arms, hugging him tight. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” he says.

She pulls back, taking his arm. “Come inside. Mum is planning to absolutely smother you with attention when she isn’t embarrassing me.”

He follows her up the front steps, looking around in interest. She knows the Burrow is hell and gone from the large family estates he is used to. “Are there going to be naked baby pictures? Please tell me there’s going to be naked baby pictures.”

“Ugh,” Ginny says. “You’re the worst.”

Sure enough, Molly fusses over him, but he actually doesn’t seem to mind. He deserves to get a little mothering. She can’t quite imagine Mrs. Burke lowering herself to more than a distracted pat on the head. Ginny can live with the mothering, it’s the speculative glances Molly keeps giving them that she has way more of a problem with. Tobias definitely notices too, waggling his eyebrows at her and leaning in too close just to take the mickey. Arsehole.

She pushes him away yet again. “Neville and Hannah want to come over later, if you’re okay with that.”

He frowns. “Why? Don’t they know I’m here?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes. They want to see you.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“I can’t either,” she says.

“Ginny,” Molly chastises. “That’s no way to talk to your friends. What will he think?”

Tobias looks delighted, sticking his tongue out at Ginny when her mum’s back is turned.

Ginny isn’t certain averting patricide is worth this.

After lunch, Neville and Hannah arrive, the four of them settling out in the garden. Tobias’ earlier joviality has disappeared entirely, leaving him slouched in a sullen heap. He’s honestly one of the most exasperating people she’s ever known.

Hannah and Neville just share a look.

Neville clears his throat. “I never really got to thank you properly, for saving my gran and all.”

Tobias looks very uncomfortable, squirming a bit in his chair. “From what I hear, she saved herself.”

“Tobias doesn’t do well with compliments,” Ginny explains. “You’re much better off telling him what a grumpy arse he is.”

“I work hard to be as grumpy as I am, thank you very much,” he says, brushing off his sleeves primly.

“Well,” Hannah says with a smile, “we’re still grateful for what you did.”

“I doubt Nigel feels that way,” Tobias shoots back, very successfully dragging down the mood like the drama queen he is. As if any of them need a reminder of the things he had to do in order to keep his cover.

His eyes meet hers briefly before looking away. By unspoken agreement they’ve never talked about the day he had to curse her. As far as Ginny is concerned there is nothing to say, let alone anything to forgive.

“Fortunately you’ve always been shite at spells,” Ginny says, doing her best to break the tension.

Tobias gives her a pained look. “You think a guy with only one leg could get a little more respect from his supposedly best mate.” He looks over at Hannah. “Hey, do you want to be my new best mate? I’m thinking of upgrading.” He eyes Ginny. “At least _she’s_ nice.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “Leave poor Hannah alone.”

Hannah just smiles at their antics.

“So how are things at Hogwarts?” Ginny asks Neville, redirecting the conversation for sanity’s sake.

“Coming along,” Neville says. “McGonagall’s been off trying to find a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

Ginny shakes her head. “What else is new?”

Tobias lets out a snort. “They’ve got to be really scraping the bottom of the cauldron at this point.”

“No doubt,” Ginny says. “Maybe they could hire Sir Cadogan.”

“He’d still be better than Umbridge,” Neville says.  

“Well,” Tobias says. “She’s unemployed these days, isn’t she?”

Yes, but also currently rotting away in Azkaban.

“I’m sure McGonagall will find someone appropriate,” Hannah says.  

“Well, she’d better hurry,” Neville says. “Letters should be going out soon.”

That shouldn’t be as frightening as it feels, Ginny knows. It’s just a castle.

“What about the other positions?” Tobias asks.

Neville frowns. “Well, most of the professors are staying on. Sinistra is apparently recovering well enough to come back.”

“Not Burbage,” Tobias says, voice hard.

Ginny winces. She tries not to think about Burbage. She never even got a funeral. A lot of people never did.

“Oh,” Neville says, shifting in his seat. “Of course.” He looks at Hannah.

“We haven’t heard anything about Muggle Studies,” she says.

“They’d better not let it slide,” Tobias says. “It’s the only thing the Carrows got right, making it mandatory.”

Hannah and Neville look at him surprise.

“You think so?” Neville asks.

Tobias leans forward in his seat. “It was necessary even before they forced all their lies down our throats. Now it’s even more important.”

Hannah reaches out and touches his arm. “You’re right. Of course.”

Tobias slumps back in his chair, not looking particularly appeased.

“How will they even find a teacher?” Neville wonders.

Few people with Muggle sympathies survived the war, many of the only ones who did going into hiding. Besides, it’s one thing to support Muggles, it’s another to openly teach the subject.

The last person brave enough to do that hadn’t survived the experience.

“You should do it,” Hannah says, looking at Tobias.

“What?” he asks, eyes wide.

“If they can’t find a teacher, you should do it. Make a reading list. Like a symposium. At least cover what Burbage taught you.”

Tobias is still staring at her like she’s speaking in tongues. “Me? A teacher? You’re bent.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” Ginny says, considering it.

Tobias turns to her with a look of betrayal.

“Oh, you’d definitely be a shite teacher,” she says, and he jabs her with the end of his cane. “But we _should_ do it. If the alternative is the subject disappearing all together.”

Hannah nods. “Because if people had known about Muggles, really known about them, could this have all been different?”

They all sit with that, the weight of everything that’s happened, the Muggles who were harmed, the Muggleborns stripped of their wands if not their freedom or lives.

“What Muggle in their right minds would send their child to Hogwarts?” Tobias says.

None of them really have an answer for that. Maybe their only hope is the Muggles’ ignorance of the wizarding world.

“Maybe we should write to McGonagall. See what she’s—” Hannah abruptly stops talking, eyes widening as she stares at something near the front gate.

Ginny turns to see that Harry has walked into the yard. Which in and of itself isn’t all that shocking, if he didn’t also happen to look like he just wrestled a troll. And possibly lost.

“Uh, hi,” he says, clearly not expecting an audience for his return. He has his arm tucked into his body with what looks like a burn visible through one of the tears in his shirt.

“What the bloody hell happened to you?” Tobias asks.

“You run into another giant like last week?” Neville asks.

Ginny narrows her eyes as she realizes Neville isn’t joking.

Harry looks sheepish, running a hand through his hair only to stop with a wince as if the movement causes him pain. “Had a bit of a run in with a skrewt.”

Tobias looks at him like he’s insane. “Merlin, Potter. You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

Harry’s expression hardens slightly. “Apparently not.”

Hannah pushes to her feet. “Let me take a look at that burn.”

“No, that’s okay,” Harry says, walking towards the house. “It’s really nothing.”

Now that’s he’s moving, Ginny can see that he’s also _limping_. Which mostly means Hannah catches up to him with no problem.

“You might as well give in, Potter,” Tobias calls out. He mutters something under his breath about Hufflepuffs and stubbornness.

“Hannah knows what she’s about,” Neville assures him. “She was our best field medic.”  

Hannah blushes. “Your _only_ medic,” she reminds him.

“Not true. We also had Nicola,” he points out.

Hannah presses her lips together, but doesn’t say anything about Nicola’s abysmal attempts at the healing arts. She was willing to try and help at least.

“She’s always been better with machines than people,” Ginny says, finally recovering enough to speak.

Harry doesn’t even glance in her direction.  

Hannah gently takes hold of his uninjured arm. “Let’s see what Mrs. Weasley has on hand, shall we?”

Ginny thinks it says something about Harry’s desire to not be out here that he doesn’t protest, letting Hannah lead him away.

What the bloody hell is going on with him?

She only realizes she’s been staring too long when Tobias says her name.

His eyes dart between her and the door Harry just disappeared through. “Something wrong?”

She sits back in her chair with a smile. “Nothing.”

*     *     *

They eat dinner out in the garden that evening, taking advantage of the nice weather. It’s a fairly quiet and uneventful meal. At least until near the end when Molly starts talking to Arthur about Burke, singing his praises.

From next to him, Harry hears Ron snort into his napkin.

Hermione leans into him. “What?”

“Oh, it’s just Mum,” Ron says, lowering his voice. “She can’t help herself. You should have seen how she was back when Charlie and Tonks were best mates.”

Across from them, Ginny lets out a low groan. “Oh, lord. I’d forgotten about that,” she says.

“He’s such a pleasant boy,” Molly says loudly to Arthur, sliding Ginny a look.

Ginny thumps her hands on the table. “He’s by far the least pleasant person I know, and he’d be the first person to agree.”

“He is a pretty tetchy bastard,” Ron agrees.

“Hey,” Ginny protests. “Be nice.”

Ron gapes at her. “I was just agreeing with you!”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Only I’m allowed to abuse my _best mate_.” She gives Molly a pointed look.

Ron considers that a moment, glancing over at Harry. “That’s fair,” he eventually shrugs.

Harry rolls his eyes, going back to his meal, vaguely listening as Arthur changes the topic to Muggle transportation.

“That was delicious, Mum,” Ron says, pushing back from the table. He pats his stomach. “But I think maybe a bit of a walk is in order.”

He glances over at Hermione.

“Oh,” she says. “Yes. That sounds nice.”

The two of them get to their feet.

“Coming?” Ron asks Harry, as if anyone is remotely fooled by that.

As much as Harry does not want to be left at the table, he also isn’t stupid enough not to know the real reason for their ‘walk’.

He doesn’t look at Hermione. “Nah. I’ve had enough tromping through trees for one day.”

Ron laughs and tugs Hermione’s hand, the two of them walking off.

Of course, when Harry looks back at the table, Ginny is watching him, her brow slightly furrowed.

He looks away, but Arthur and Percy are quietly discussing something at the other end of the table.

“Well,” Molly says, heaving to her feet and starting to stack the dishes.

Harry jumps up. “I’ll take care of it,” he says, taking the stack from her hands.

It says something about how tired she is that she doesn’t protest. “Oh, thank you, dear,” she says. “I could use a little time off my feet.”

In the kitchen, Harry puts the plates in the sink. Taking a breath, he leans his hands on the edge of the sink, enjoying the quiet. He stretches slightly to the side, and there’s still a little lingering pain in his side where he fell today trying to get away from the bloody skrewt.

Not his most graceful moment.

The back door opens, and Harry straightens. Ginny walks in, another stack of plates in her hands.

She steps up next to him, and only now can he admit to himself that he came in here to get away from her. It’s annoying, but for some reasons being near her irritates him, like little bits of sand under his skin, and it shouldn’t but it does and he doesn’t know why.

“Hey,” she says.

He tries to say something polite back, but it’s really just a grunt of acknowledgment as he sets the dishes to scrubbing themselves.

She looks at him, frank and appraising, and she isn’t trying to hide it, to be sly about it like most people. She just stares at him, and he stands there and stares back, his chin lifting slightly.

“What?” he asks, the word coming out very nearly hostile.

Her eyebrows lift at his rudeness.

He braces himself for her to press him about how reckless he’s been, to tell him that he’s worrying Ron and Hermione. He isn’t oblivious, and Hermione is rarely subtle, no matter how much she tries to manage him while trying to look like she isn’t. He knows they all think he’s a disaster waiting to happen.

Again.

Something about the idea of Ginny piling on too makes anger crawl up his throat.

Only she doesn’t say anything, just turns back to the sink, picking up a fork and scraping the plates.

“I had a lot of time to think while I was gone,” she eventually says, and Harry can’t help but flinch, two of the plates clanging together.

Ginny reaches out to settle them, and Harry considers going back out to get more plates.

She turns towards him, her hip resting against the counter in a way that rather effectively cuts off his escape route. “I realized that one of the things I’m struggling with most is convincing myself that it’s really all finally over. The war.”

Harry turns back to the sink, staring down at the plates washing themselves.

“I’m not sure what I think will happen,” she says. “Like the moment I actually accept it, this will all disappear in a puff and I’ll wake up back in the castle again. Because if I let myself actually _feel_ any of this, if I stop planning and preparing and bracing myself for the next awful thing, I’ll be too weak to survive it again. And for a while there, surviving was all that mattered.”

His hands tighten on the lip of the sink, and it takes a lot of effort not to tell her to just _stop talking_.

“But this,” she presses on, making a vague sweeping gesture encompassing the kitchen, the Burrow, the people outside. “This has to be about more than surviving. Doesn’t it?”

“I guess all it takes is a month at Shell Cottage and everything is so perfectly sodding clear,” he snaps before he can stop himself.

And, god, he’s angry. Angry at her. Angry that she left. That she stayed away so long. Angry that she came back. Angry that she doesn’t look upset about the way he’s treating her. Angry that she’s still standing there, watching him like she _knows_. Because she doesn’t.

But this isn’t the same Ginny who left for Shell Cottage. She crosses her arms over her chest, not budging in the face of his aggression.

“I don’t know where you go or what you’re doing. But I do know that there will never be enough work, enough things to do to make it so none of it ever happened.” She considers him. “The war is finished, Harry.”

He flinches, bracing himself for her to say more, to push, but she just waits calmly for him to respond.

When he doesn’t say anything, she picks up a towel, carefully drying her fingers. She turns to leave, and he feels a completely ridiculous beat of panic.

“I don’t think I know how to be finished,” he says, the words squeezing out against his will, and that just makes him angrier, that she can do this to him.

She stops, turning back to face him.

If she says, _just do it_ or _find a way_ or _I believe in you,_ he thinks he’ll utterly lose it, right here in the kitchen.

But all she does is look back at him, no pity or fear or wariness. Just looks back at him and nods.

“Yeah,” she says, voice soft.

Tentatively she reaches out and squeezes his arm, just a gentle touch, and then she’s walking away, leaving him standing alone at the sink, staring out over the yard.

*     *     *

Ginny gives Harry a lot of space the next few days. She knows he’s angry. Angry Harry she can deal with, much more easily than coming-home-covered-in-bruises-and-injuries Harry; more easily than listless, won’t-look-at-her Harry. Those she would rather never deal with again, if she’s honest.

So, yes, he’s angry, and maybe he didn’t want to hear what she had to say. But at least he finally admitted it out loud. That he’s struggling to let this all be over. It’s important, she tells herself, and gives him plenty of space to figure the rest out.  

Not that it’s hard. He still seems to be doing his best to be anywhere she isn’t, and that stings a bit, sure, but she can handle it.

Of course, just when she thinks she understands everything, he comes to the dinner table one night, pausing to look at the two open seats available to him. Ginny thinks it’s pretty much a no-brainer considering one is next to her and the other isn’t, but he still pauses, darting a look at her. Then, inexplicably, he sits down next to her.

Just another reason Harry Potter is like a constant lesson in entropy.

He still doesn’t really say anything to her other than passing dishes now and again, but he’s looking at her at least.

“Butter?” he asks, holding it out to her.

“Uh, sure,” she says, taking it from him.

He gives her a small, rather tense smile before turning back to his food.

Ginny blinks down at the butter for a moment.

Across the kitchen, the fireplace flares to life, a head appearing in the flames.

“Ginny?” a voice calls.

Butter dish forgotten, she pushes to her feet, craning her neck to make out the face of their visitor.

“Reiko?” she says, coming around the table and kneeling by the grate. “Let me pull you through.”

Reiko nods, lifting her arms.

They both tumble to the floor, a puff of ash enveloping them both.

“What is it? Are you okay?” Ginny asks, knowing she would never contact her like this for no reason.

“He’s awake,” Reiko says, impatiently flipping her hair back from her face.

“What?” Ginny says, feeling blood drain from her face as she slowly pushes to her feet.

Reiko nods. “He’s _awake_ , Ginny. Talking and everything.”

“But—” she sputters. Everyone was so certain. There’d been no hope at all.

“I know,” Reiko says, a bright smile blooming across her face. “It’s amazing.”

Ginny is scrambling to keep up, her mind flipping through details and things to do. “Does Tilly know?”

“Of course. She was there when he woke up.” Reiko bounces a bit on her feet, giving her an impatient look. “Well? Are you coming or what?”

Ginny’s halfway into the fireplace before she pauses, looking back at Molly. “Can I go to St. Mungo’s?”

Molly regards her, Ginny bracing herself to be told she needs to take someone with her. After a moment, she nods. “Of course, dear.”

Ginny tries not to look surprised. “I’ll be back when I can.”

She expects pushback, but after a careful breath, Molly nods. “Just send word if you go anywhere else.”

Ginny moves back to her mum, hand on her shoulder as she leans down to kiss her cheek. “I will.”

She doesn’t spare a glance for anyone else as she follows Reiko into the fire.

In St. Mungo’s they pass through the waiting area and up to the long term care ward. As they get closer to Bassenthwaite’s room, Ginny notices a small crowd of people in the hall.

“His family,” Reiko says, voice far from friendly.

Ginny looks at them again, noting that they all look dour and upset. She frowns, looking at Reiko. “I thought you said...”

Reiko’s expression is dark as she glares at the crowd. “Just wait.”

Sure enough, inside the room Bassenthwaite is sitting propped up on his bed. He cracks an eye open as the door closes behind them.

“Well look at what the thestral dragged in,” he says, voice rough.

“I…” Ginny struggles to say, still completely unprepared to see him again. Awake. Alive. “I’m really glad to see you.”

“Well,” he says. “It’s what every bloke hopes for. Waking up to three witches hovering over him breathlessly.”

Reiko snorts. “I’m breathing just fine, thank you very much. Also, ew.”

He snickers, eyes closing again like it’s a lot of work to keep them open.

Ginny looks him over, and he still looks incredibly diminished, cheeks pale and gaunt, but that can all change now, right?

“She tell you yet?” he asks without opening his eyes, hand gesturing listlessly towards Reiko.

“Tell me what?” Ginny asks, glancing at Reiko.

She just winces.

“About my magic,” he says.

“What about it?”

“Oh, then you haven’t heard the best part,” he says, looking up at her, his lips twisting. “It’s gone. Poof.”

“What?” Ginny breathes.

He nods, the movement slow and lethargic. “Nothing they can do.”

Merlin.

She thinks how hard it is, not being able to use her wand since she got home. That’s nothing in comparison to not having it at all, that constant quiet buzz of possibility that is with her always. It’s as much a part of her as breathing.

“You know it’s kinda odd, because I can feel it. It being gone. When I never thought about it being there much at all to begin with.” His brow furrows and then he’s heaving a shrug. “Nothing to be done for it, I suppose.”

“Tristram,” Ginny says, completely at a loss of what to say.

He lifts his eyebrows at her use of his first name. “Oh, now I _know_ it’s bad. I can’t imagine everyone was tip-toeing around me this bad even when I was dying.” He leans his head back, looking up at the ceiling. “Though I suppose there’s an argument to be made that I’d be better off dead.”

“That is absolute bollocks and you know it,” Ginny very nearly snarls.

By the window, Reiko has her arms hugged tight around her body, looking so painfully young.  

“Not according to my parents.” He lifts his hands, looking at them. “Probably can’t even fly a broom anymore.”

“Fortunately you’ve always been more than just a Beater,” Ginny says, giving him her steeliest glare. “And if you family needs to be reminded of that, I’m happy to do it.”

He lets out a wheezy laugh that makes Ginny want to wince. He’s been immobile in a bed for months, she reminds herself. He’ll get stronger. And he’s _alive_.

“Care to fill the rest of us in on the joke?” she asks, forcing her voice light.

He shakes his head. “Oh, just thinking that my poor family has no idea how dangerous it is to displease Ginny Weasley.”

“Only a few more weeks and I’ll be seventeen,” she says. “Just tell me who to hex.”

“I’ll start a list,” he promises, his eyes drooping.

He’s quiet a long time, his breathing eventually evening out.

Ginny leans back in her seat, still reeling with everything.

“It’s my fault,” Reiko says.

Ginny turns to look at her.

“If I hadn’t insisted on staying, he wouldn’t have…”

“You can’t know that,” Ginny says. “You can’t know what effect you had, how many lives you might have saved by being there. You can’t know what could have been. You can only know what is now. And now, you are here for him in a way his bloody good-for-nothing family isn’t.”

Reiko’s chin lifts as she stubbornly blinks back against tears. “Okay. Yeah.”

“Ginny.”

She looks up to find Tilly in the doorway. She cants her head towards the hallway. “Got a minute?”

Ginny nods, looking back down at Bassenthwaite. Getting up, she squeezes Reiko’s hand and then follows Tilly out into the hall. “How are you?”

“Not here,” she says, eyeing the collection of Bassenthwaite’s family, a few of whom are watching them with not particularly warm expressions. She moves further down the hall and around the corner.

Ginny gestures at some chairs, but Tilly seems too intent on pacing, turning around in tight, little circles. “They’re filing papers in the morning. My parents.”

“For what?”

Tilly gives her an impatient look. “To break the betrothal, of course.”

A betrothal she never wanted in the first place.

“Oh,” Ginny says.

Tilly nods. “Do you know that he doesn’t have any brothers? Apparently there’s a nephew though. Someone directly in the bloodlines. Someone _whole_.” She gives Ginny a smile laced with poison. “His parents find his partial recovery almost as inconvenient as mine do.”

The implications of that spool out in Ginny’s mind. Estates and bloodlines and fortunes and trust funds. Things she has heard about but never had to consider. Could they really take it all away from him? As if losing his magic and almost his life weren’t cost enough.

“Write to Theodora,” Ginny says. She’s been studying magical law since she left Hogwarts. “Just to see what your options are. What your rights are. What his are. Betrothal or no.”

She may very well be the only one looking out for his interests if what he said about his family is true.  

Tilly straightens. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Ginny reaches out and touches her shoulders. “Because you’re stressed and exhausted and in an impossible situation?”

Tilly lets out a humorless laugh. “Oh yeah. That.”

Ginny considers her, taking in the dark circles under her eyes. “He’s lucky to have you, Tilly.”

She shakes her head. “I’ll write Theodora right now,” she says, and then she’s striding off.

Ginny goes back to Bassenthwaite’s room, sending Reiko home to get some rest. She sits curled up in a chair until Tilly gets back some time after midnight.

“You should go home,” Tilly says. “He’ll be out for the rest of the night.”

“What about you?” Ginny asks, getting to her feet, stretching her back.

She gestures at the other empty bed. “I’ll get a few hours myself.”

“I’ll come back in the morning,” Ginny promises.

Tilly nods.

Trudging out to the waiting room, she rather blearily uses the Floo. In the kitchen, there is only a single light waiting for her in the window, a plate with a warming charm sitting on the table.

Crossing over to the sink, Ginny fills a glass with water, sitting down at the table with it. She pushes the food away, not feeling particularly hungry. She has no idea how she is supposed to feel right now, a nauseous clash of relief and anger and worry and impotence roiling in her stomach.  

Lowering her face into her hands, she rubs at her temples, staring down at the play of light in the water.

“Ginny?”

She glances back over her shoulder, and Harry is standing in the doorway. Frowning, she looks past him into the sitting room.

“I was upstairs,” he’s quick to say. “Bill’s room. I heard the Floo.”

“Oh,” she says. “Sorry I woke you.”

“You didn’t,” he says. “I was…up.”  

“Okay,” she says, too exhausted to wonder why he’s awake. She just…can’t deal with him right now on top of everything else.  

She turns back to the table, hoping he’ll take the hint and beat a hasty retreat like usual.

In typical Harry Potter fashion, of course, instead he does what she least expects. Circling around the table, he regards her from near the sink. “Is everything okay?”

“No,” she says, not even having the energy to lie. “Nothing is okay.”

He takes a few steps closer. “Is he…?”

“He’s going to live.”

“Oh,” Harry says, looking confused. “That’s good.”

“He’s a squib,” she explains, and for some reason she finds herself watching his face closely for any reaction. She doesn’t know what’s she’s looking for. Revulsion? Disinterest? Horror? Smugness?

But of course she doesn’t find any of that. Why would she? He just regards her, looking concerned and a little confused. “Is he?”

She looks back down at her hands, picking at the rim of the glass with her nails. “Apparently it happens sometimes. Magical trauma so intense that it ends up permanently disabling.”

Pulling out a chair across from her, Harry lowers himself into it. “But he’s going to live.”

She nods. “He’s going to live and his family was there looking like it was the worst thing that could have happened.” She shoves the glass away before she can give in to the urge to smash it against a wall. “I don’t understand how they can think he would be better off dead.”

“I don’t know,” Harry says.  

She lifts her hands to her hair, still unprepared to find her fingers groping for a non-existent braid even after a month. Dropping them back to the table, she blows out a breath. “They still look at me like they expect me to have all the answers, and I just—” She breaks off, shaking her head.

“Yeah.”

She’s supposes he probably knows a little something about what that’s like. People endlessly expecting things of you.

“I’m sorry,” she says, not meaning to unload on him like this.

“It’s okay,” he says, voice mild.

She finally looks up at him, studying him. He looks tired, his hair smashed flat on one side of his head like he’s been lying down. She doesn’t understand what he’s doing here.

“You don’t have to do this,” she says.

He frowns. “Do what?”

“Be here. Like this. For me.” He’s been avoiding her; that much is obvious. She doesn’t blame him for that. “I understand if you don’t particularly want to be around me after...everything.”

“That’s not—” He lets out a frustrated breath. “That’s not true.”

“Harry…” she says, because she isn’t blind.

He closes his eyes, fingers digging up under his glasses to rub at them, and not for the first time, she wonders what is going on in his head. What she would see if she ever looked.

But those are lines she has zero interest in crossing.

“Hermione asked me to go to Australia with them,” he bursts out, like he’s been holding the words back. 

“What?” she asks, startled.

He nods. “I said I would.”

She flinches back, looking down at her hands. She hates herself for the beat of panic she feels at this news. This idea that he’s going away. Again. It’s not like she’s been here herself. Or that she ever expected him to go back to Hogwarts. But still, the idea of him leaving…

He was supposed to _be here_ when she got back.

“Ginny?”

“When?” she asks, eyes still stubbornly lowered.

“Middle of August,” he says.

Just weeks away.

“For how long?” _Just collect the information_ , she tells herself.

“Hermione isn’t sure. But it’s…going to be a while. Probably months rather than weeks.”

For some reason, she can’t hold back a humorless laugh. It could almost be last year, everything flipping back around again.

Chair legs scrape against the floor as Harry leans towards her across the table. “I can’t go back to Hogwarts,” he says. “And I don’t think…”

He sounds guilty, she realizes.

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” she says.

“Yes,” he says, hands curling into fists. “I do.”

She shakes her head.

“Ginny,” he says, and she forces herself to look up at him. “I’ve been an arse since you got back. I know that. I just couldn’t find a way to tell you…”

“That you’re leaving again,” she says.

His shoulders drop, and he looks defeated. “Yeah.”  

She’d let herself hope, she realizes. Hope there could be a chance for this to somehow all work out. 

“I’m sorry,” he says.

She shakes her head. What right does she have to expect him to stay? “Maybe it’s a good idea,” she forces herself to say.

“How’s that?” he asks, not looking particularly convinced.

She shrugs. “It could give you a chance to figure it out. How to be finished. How to be Harry and not the Chosen One.” She tries to smile at him. “You deserve that.”

Harry is still regarding her, and she’s almost forgotten what it can feel like, being the center of his focus. “And you?” he asks.

“Me?” she says, her stomach fluttering traitorously.

He nods, not looking away. “What do you deserve?”

She leans back in her chair, shaking her head, because that’s always been the question, hasn’t it? They sit in silence, the table firmly between them, and she thinks that must be metaphorical or something, but can’t stand to think about it. The ending of things that never really began.

“Maybe I deserve that too,” she says, voice slow and methodical as she forces herself to think about it, _really_ think about it. “Time to figure out how to be...like this.” She gestures feebly at herself.

He frowns. “Like what?”

She lifts her shoulders. “Broken, I guess.”

“You aren’t broken,” he says, voice hard.

“I am,” she says, and it’s not self-pity or anything. It’s just a fact. “Maybe I always will be in some ways. I just...I have to find a way to be okay with that. That I’m never going to be exactly who I was before. That I don’t _have_ to be. This is who I am now, and that’s going to have to be good enough. Somehow.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, continuing to regard her intently, his expression for once really hard to decipher.

“I’m sorry,” she says, rubbing at her eyes. She’s so bloody tired. “That probably doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know why I’m always telling you these things.”

“It does,” he says.

“What?”

“It does make sense,” he says. “And I’m glad you do.”

For some reason she finds it hard to look at him, glancing back down at her hands. They sit there together in the silence of the kitchen, both of them lost in their thoughts.

“You asked me once,” Harry says after a while, “if we were friends.”

She nods, swallowing against the dryness in her throat, thinking back to that conversation in the orchard. Almost a year ago now. “I remember.”

“I think maybe you were right,” he admits. “We never really were.”

She tries really hard not to wince at that, this reminder that they have almost been a lot of things, but never even managed that. “No. I guess not.”

His thumbs tap against the table, and she finds herself strangely hypnotized by it, the pale stretch of a scar just visible on the back of his left hand.

_I must not tell lies._

“Would you…want to be?”  

Ginny tears her eyes away from his hands. “What?”

He clears his throat. “Be friends.”

She stares at him.

“You know, the kind that don’t only talk at night or in secret rooms.” His lips twitch like he’s trying to make a joke and falling far short.

Ginny honestly has no idea what she is feeling, knowing he is asking for more, but also so much less.

He looks down at the table. “If that’s a stupid idea—”

“It’s not,” Ginny says, finally finding her voice. “It’s not a stupid idea at all.”

It’s just not _all_ she wants. Not even close.

But maybe somehow Harry gets that. “Look, I’m going away again and I know I can’t expect you to just…wait around. And I don’t want you to feel like you have to tiptoe around me, or be...different. Or like you were.” He looks up at her, his shoulders seeming to square. “I just don’t want it to be weird anymore. Having this...it’s too important. You’re too important.”

It’s a stupid thing to almost cry over, but she still finds it hard to speak for a moment because she knows exactly what he means. It’s more than she could hope for, really. Having him as a friend, getting to still have this without any of the other pressures or promises they aren’t sure they can keep.

Because he’s too important.

“I don’t want it to be weird anymore either,” she says.  

His shoulders relax. “So…friends?”

She nods, ignoring the burning in her chest. “Yeah.”

He smiles, his hand awkwardly half-reaching for hers only to pull back away. “Okay.”

“Okay,” she agrees.

It’s simple, really. He’ll go to Australia, and she’ll go back to Hogwarts.

And they’ll be friends.

“Well,” he says, starting to look self-conscious as the silence stretches long. “I have to be up in a few hours, so I’m gonna…” He gestures towards the stairs.

“Sleep in a real bed like you promised?”

“Of course,” he says. “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow. You know, in the daylight.”

She smiles, and it’s easy. Really. She can do this. “Proof that we’re not vampires.”

“Yeah,” he says, getting to his feet. He pauses, leaning his hands on the back of the chair. “I’m really sorry about everything with Bassenthwaite.”

She nods. “Yeah. Me too.”

He pushes his chair in, coming around the table to reach the stairs.

Against her judgment, she reaches out as he passes by, her fingers catching his. The warmth of them is a bit of a shock against her skin, but she doesn’t let go.

He stops, looking down at her. “Ginny?”

She scrambles for what she wants to say, what she should and shouldn’t say. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asks.

She shakes her head, feeling completely ridiculous. “For being you, I suppose.”

She glances up at him, and he’s watching her, something intense in his gaze that makes her skin feel a little too tight.

For a moment he seems to waver, to lean towards her, but then his fingers are squeezing around hers before letting go.

“Night, Gin,” he says.

“Night,” she manages to say.

And then he’s gone.


	11. Chapter 11

Harry isn’t at breakfast the next morning, but that doesn’t really surprise Ginny. The real question is if he’s going to survive his trips with Hagrid long enough to actually get to go to Australia. She has her doubts.

On the other side of the table, Hermione thumps down the morning copy of _The Prophet_ with a sound of disgust. “Honestly.”

Ron winces over his eggs. “Up to it again, are they?”

Ginny looks between them. “What’s happening?”

“Oh, the bloody _Prophet_ ,” Ron says. “They’ve been chewing Harry up. Seems to be their favorite hobby these days.”

“Have they?” Ginny asks. “Why?”

Hermione shoves the paper over towards her. “Have a look. I’m finished anyway.”

Ginny pulls it closer as Ron kisses Hermione goodbye. She didn’t keep up with the papers while she was at to Shell Cottage. It’s probably well past time to get back into the world. After breakfast she digs a few older issues of the paper out of the bin, folding them all up and tucking them into her satchel before she heads back over to St. Mungo’s.

She spends the morning sitting by Bassenthwaite’s bed reading them while he dozes in and out. When Bassenthwaite is actually awake for any period of time, she reads articles to him, usually the most amusing letters to the editors or drivel from the gossip columns.

The ones about Harry she keeps to herself, reading through them with a greater and greater feeling of foreboding and anger.

It’s clear that someone is walking a very fine line of bolstering Harry’s hero status while also mitigating any unfavorable opinions he may actually express. _Great guy, that Harry Potter, but not particularly reliable, you know? Good in a fight, but what does he actually know about anything? He’s just a kid!_

_Where is Harry Potter?_ one article asks.

Currently trudging through the Forbidden Forest, Ginny knows, and for the first time she considers that isn’t just about keeping busy, but also hiding from this.

It seems the world is forever misunderstanding him, or just using him. After all, that is what one does with a particularly useful tool.

By late morning Reiko returns, and Ginny crumples up the papers and shoves them into a bin with distaste before Flooing back to the Burrow.

There’s a letter waiting for her from Tilly.

_Ginny-_

_Well, I’ve managed to throw a pixie in the works at least. They can’t break the betrothal without my permission seeing as I am of age. I suppose they never considered I wouldn’t want to get out of it. Everyone is scrambling to figure out how to get around me. You should have seen their faces when they realized I wasn’t just going to do what they told me. I’m not sure my parents are ever going to speak to me again. But this is what I need to do. I’ve bought us time for Theodora to do some research. It’s something. Can we all meet up the week after next? Antonia’s said we can meet at the shop._

_-Tilly_

Ginny writes back, saying she will be there and to let her know if there is anything she can help with. She has faith Theodora will come up with something, remembering the intimidating and forceful girl from her school days. She can only imagine what she’s like now.

As lunchtime nears, Ginny finds herself watching the clock, anxious to see Harry again, but also nervous to see what this is going to be like.

He’s late, which only stretches her nerves more. He finally wanders in just as they are finishing lunch. He isn’t limping, which is good, but he looks tired. Tired enough that he should have known better than to spend seven hours running around a forest that does its best to eat anyone who isn’t paying attention. It’s reckless, no matter his reasoning, and she has no intention of letting him get away with it anymore.

She ignores the voice at the back of her head telling her maybe he’s just avoiding her still.

He smiles when he sees her, and that makes a lot of the anxiety fade.

Giving him an arch look in return, she glances behind her at the clock with an exaggerated turn of her head.

“Did you get lost or something?” she asks.

He seems startled for a moment, and then he’s ducking his chin, mumbling, “Yeah, yeah. Time just got away from me.”

“Well,” she says, “you should find it again, because you look like crap.”

His eyebrows lift. “Thank you for that.”

She smiles, waiting until he is closer to lean back towards him and say, “I’m pretty sure friends get to give each other shite when they’re being thick.”

He groans under his breath. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

He nudges her chair a bit as he passes by, smiling at her before disappearing up the stairs.

It’s nice, she tells herself.

*      *     *

Harry wakes at the sound of his alarm, staring up at the ceiling for a few moments as he blinks away sleep. Then he rolls out of bed, grabbing his clothes and pulling them on. Now that he’s no longer sharing with Ron, he doesn’t have to be particularly quiet. Ron insisted that he doesn’t mind, but Harry suspects Ron is more than happy not to have a roommate now that Ginny is back sharing with Hermione.

But he tries not to think about that too much.

When Harry gets to the kitchen, he’s a little surprised to see dirty dishes already in the sink, mostly because that means someone was actually up before him. Even Percy rarely appears this early.

There’s only one person in this house he’s ever known to enjoy early mornings.

Sure enough, when he looks out the kitchen window, he catches movement in the sky between the trees.

Grabbing a handful of biscuits from a cupboard, he walks down to the paddock and there Ginny is, up on her broom. It hasn’t even occurred to him how wrong it’s been, the way she hasn’t picked up a broom all summer.

Leaning against the fence, he watches her fly, run through a series of drills in the slowly lightening sky. She’s better than any of her brothers, better than everyone else at Hogwarts, really. After everything, it should seem childish or unimportant, her grace and grit on a broom, but it makes him feel good, the joy to be found in something as simple as Quidditch. As _normal_.

He wants her to never stop flying.

He settles down on a nearby log where her broom kit sits with an abandoned sweatshirt half slung across it like she tossed it from above as she flew by. Another fifteen minutes pass as she finishes her drills, but he’s content enough nibbling on his breakfast and watching her.

It’s been a comfortable week, conversations coming more and more easily between them. Instead of just hanging around Ron and Hermione, Ginny is there most evenings now too when she isn’t at St. Mungo’s.

As far as he can tell she seems to be doing better. Not that she doesn’t go quiet sometimes, occasionally seeming to kind of float off somewhere else in her mind. She always looks a bit winded after it happens, often excusing herself and disappearing up into her room. Still, she’s usually back down helping Molly soon enough, as if nothing happened.

She looks embarrassed enough that he assumes she doesn’t want to talk about it, so he just lets it go.  

Ginny makes a tight circle of the pitch before heading back down towards him.

“Morning,” she says as she steps down off her broom with effortless grace.

“Hey,” he says, smiling at her as he feels something settle in his chest. It’s nice, he tells himself, to have a lot of that awkwardness stripped away.

She sits down near him, pulling the broom kit towards her. He watches her rub a smooth polish over the handle of her broom. It isn’t the fanciest broom or the fastest, but worn and cared for and no doubt perfectly tuned to her. There are runes carved into the wood.

“What are these?” he asks, gesturing at the handle.

Ginny rubs her fingers over them with a small smile. “Smita helped me with them. Improves acceleration and braking.”

“Is that legal?”

She shrugs. “It’s not illegal.” She glances up at him. “Technically.”

He smiles.

She turns back to her broom. “Would you think me completely frivolous if I said I wanted to play Quidditch after Hogwarts?” she asks.

It’s the first he’s heard her talk of it, the future.

“No,” he says. “I think I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. I want to watch you in the World Cup someday.”

She slides him a look. “Guess I shouldn’t take a spot with the Cannons then.”

Harry smiles. “Don’t let Ron hear you say that.”

She rubs at her face, leaving a small smudge of polish next to her nose. “It feels a bit stupid, to care so much about Quidditch.”

He tucks his hands under his legs. “It’s why we fought the war, isn’t it? So we could care about what we want to care about?”

Her eyes are drawn far, and he wonders what she may be seeing. “I suppose.”

“So you’re going to go back,” he says. “To Hogwarts.”

“I am,” she says, her hands tightening around her broom. “Somehow, I am going walk into that castle without falling apart.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says like she’s trying to believe it. “And even though right now that seems impossible, I have almost five weeks left to figure it out.”

He will never understand how she can’t see herself as brave. She’s pretty much one of the bravest people he has ever known.

“I’m sure you will,” he says.

“We’ll see.” Her nose wrinkles as she pulls a face. “Mum’s always telling me to take my time. That everyone copes in their own way.”

“Yeah?”

She shrugs. “Percy’s dutiful-son routine, George and the shop. And look at Ron.”

“Ron?” he asks.

“His sudden interest in cooking? I’m not really sure why cooking of all things, but he clearly finds calm in taking care of people. He’s like Mum that way.”

A lot like her too, Harry can’t help but think. But for some reason, he doesn’t think she would appreciate the comparison.

“We were hungry a lot,” he finds himself saying.

“What?” she asks, brow furrowing.

“When we were on the run. Ron had the hardest time with it.”

She seems to absorb that, like she’s filing the tidbit away to analyze later. “Not you?”

He shrugs. “I’ve been hungry before, so it didn’t bother me as much, I guess.”

Her lips press together. “I see.”

Harry looks away, casting about for something to change the subject. “I suppose Hermione’s endless reading about Australia is her way of coping.”

She lets out a huff. “Hard to tell with her. Though I imagine more likely she copes by snogging Ron.”

Her shoulders tense almost as soon as the words are out, and he can tell she’s kicking herself for saying that.

“What about you?” she asks, clearly trying to push past her embarrassment.

“Me?”

“What are you doing to cope? You know, besides wrestling skrewts.”

“Well,” he says. “I’m not snogging Ron.”

She lets out a surprised laugh, her shoulders relaxing, and that’s better. “That’s good, I suppose.”

“Is it?” he asks.

She shrugs. “Mostly because I think Hermione would fight you.”

“You don’t think I could take her?”

Her expression sobers, her eyes traveling over his face. “I think you need to find a way to deal with this that isn’t fighting.”

The change in tone catches Harry off-guard, and he finds he can’t quite hold her gaze.

He scuffs his foot against the ground, watching the small puffs of dirt lift up into the air. “And if that’s all I’m good for?”

Ginny’s response is instantaneous and visceral. “It’s not.”

He looks up at her.

“It’s _not_ ,” she insists, and, god, she almost looks like herself again in that moment, like she’s ready to destroy anyone who wants to argue with her.

“I’ll have to take your word for that,” he says.

She looks away, her cheeks warm. “Ron told me, about what the Ministry tried to do to you. To get you to attend the trials.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He pulls a length of grass up, running it through his fingers. “That was fun.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” she says. “Not that you needed me telling you what to do.”

“I did,” he says. “At least, I would have liked to have known what you thought.”

“I think you did what you had to. And sod the lot of them.”

He laughs. “See? Very useful advice.”

She nudges him with her elbow in retaliation.

He looks back down at the grass in his hands, pulling it apart piece by piece. Brushing his hands clean, he leans his elbows on his knees.

“I’m sorry too,” he says.

“For what?”

Her turns his head to look at her. The bruises have long since faded, but he knows some things don’t have to leave marks to linger. “Not being there. Last year.”

It’s fascinating to watch, the way emotions seem to slide behind her eyes, none of them really making it to her face. He thinks how easy it might be to miss them entirely if you weren’t looking closely enough.

“That wasn’t your fault,” she eventually settles on saying.

“Still,” he says.

She gives him a weak smile. “Honestly, Potter, the last thing we needed was your brand of chaos added to the mix.”

“Better off without me, huh?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You’d just think it,” he teases.

She gives him a vague shrug. “You did what you had to,” she says again, and he wonders how many times he’ll need to hear her say that to believe it.

Finally giving in to the temptation, he reaches out towards her face, stopping just short of touching. “You’ve got a little…” he says.

“Oh,” she says, looking down at her polish-stained fingers.

“I’ve got it,” he says, swiping his thumb gently across her cheek.

She doesn’t pull back, just sits still as he rubs the polish away.

“Thanks,” she says, voice soft.

“Sure.”

There’s a rustle in the brush behind them, the sounds of tromping footsteps that would put an elephant to shame.

Harry drops his hand, looking back over his shoulder.

“That’ll be Ron,” Ginny says, attention once again on her broom.

“This early?” he says. “He lose a bet or something?”

“Oh, just a little good old-fashioned blackmail,” she says, and he can’t tell if she’s joking.

“Ugh,” Ron complains as he appears, his broom hitched up over one shoulder. “Don’t you berks understand the sacredness of the summer holiday lie-in?”

Hermione appears a few moments later, a book and a blanket tucked under her arm.

“Harry,” she says, clearly surprised to see him. “Aren’t you meeting Hagrid?”

Harry shrugs. “Thought maybe I’d take the day,” he says, trying to sound as if he hasn’t just decided it as he was sitting here.  

“Oh,” Hermione says, giving him a pleased smile. “That’s a wonderful idea.”

Harry can’t help but look at Ginny again, and she meets his eye, her lips pressing together before she looks away like she’s trying not to laugh.  

Recovering, she holds her broom out to him. “You should take a turn,” she says. “Maybe not quite the thrill of tackling trolls…”

He hasn’t felt much like flying either, but maybe he should try.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, reaching out to take it from her, his fingers brushing against hers.

*     *     *

Ginny walks over to Luna’s one morning, knocking on the door to the tall house. Leaning back, she can make out black scorch marks on the walls around an upper window. It looks like it has been rather shoddily patched.

“Ginny,” Luna says as she opens the door.

“Hey,” Ginny says, stepping up inside. “Thanks for having me over.”

It’s been far too long since they’ve seen each other.

“Daddy,” Luna says. “You remember Ginny.”

It takes Ginny a moment to locate him among the dismantled pieces of what looks like a printing press. “Hello, Mr. Lovegood.”

He ducks his head, stringy hair falling over his face. He waves a hand vaguely at her in response, letting out a mumbled sound more like a whimper than a word.

Ginny frowns. She knew he wasn’t doing well, but this isn’t exactly what she was expecting.

Luna crosses over, touching his arm. “We're going down to the stream, Daddy.”

“The stream?” he says, looking up with alarm.

“Yes, Daddy. I will be with Ginny.”

He peers over at her, and Ginny has to force herself not to take an instinctive step back.

“I’ll be quite safe,” Luna says, voice quiet and patient. “We will return in two hours.”  

They leave Mr. Lovegood staring intently at a clock, counting softly under his breath.

Walking out into the fields, Luna speaks before Ginny can even ask.

“He isn’t very well, no.”

“I’m sorry,” Ginny says, thinking how hard that must be, having to care for a parent like that.

Luna nods. “He tried to betray Harry, you know.”

“What?” Ginny says, glancing sharply at her.

“When they had me. He tried to trade Harry for my freedom. Fortunately he, Hermione, and Ronald were able to get away.”

“Oh,” Ginny says, feeling a rush of anger and horror for the broken man, because how _dare_ he.  

Luna seems to sense her anger. “He wasn't in his right mind, I don't think. But he did choose to do it. Choices are important. They make us who we are.”

“He loves you very much,” Ginny says, knowing it doesn’t excuse anything, but that it still matters. Most of all to Luna.

“Yes,” she says. “He does. And I'm all he has left. Even more so now that he doesn't even have himself.”

Ginny winds her arm through Luna’s. “I'm sorry, Luna.”

She smiles, patting her hand. “You're kind. I don't know why you try to pretend you aren't.”

Ginny gives her a grim smile. “It's like you said, we all make our choices.”

They settle by the stream, Luna rolling up her trousers to wade out into the water. She carefully sets some sort of traps with bits of marshmallow fluff in them.

“I was wondering if you could help me with something,” Ginny asks, picking up a small rock and tossing it into the water.

Luna looks intrigued. “A special project?”

Ginny nods. “A very special project. A secret one.”  

Luna beams. “I’m quite good at keeping secrets.”

Ginny smiles. “I know you are.”

Luna turns back to the water, humming softly under her breath.

After a very strange lunch with Luna and her father, they spend most of the afternoon working on the project together. Ginny walks back in the late afternoon, Luna promising to have it finished in the next few days.

Back at the Burrow, she walks up the stairs, but something makes her go past her own floor, continuing up to the next. There are only two doors on the second landing, one leading to the tiny closet that is Percy’s impeccable space. The other is firmly shut. Has been for months.

No one has gone near the room all summer.

Crossing over to it, Ginny stands in front of it. After a few deep breaths, she reaches out, turning the handle and pushing it open. The smell of sugar and gunpowder seems to hit her like a wall.

Neither of the twins lived in this room for months before the battle, but there are still two beds, boxes stacked up to the ceiling. There are posters and a dresser with a giant dent in the side and a black singe mark on the wall.

There are lifetimes of memories.

Ginny feels it all well up inside her, but for once forces herself not to push it back down, to shove it behind a wall, but instead let herself feel it. Really feel it. The loss and pain and horrible grief. Lets it come and come and come.

And here, finally, are the tears Fred deserves. The tears _she_ deserves. The first she’s been weak enough to let escape since that last dark night in the castle.

_I love you, Forge._

She stands in that doorway even though she feels like she may crumble under the weight, stands and cries for her dead brother and the struggling twin left behind, for the little girl who will never see her big brother again, for the empty space that can never be filled.

“Ginny?”

It’s Ron, touching her shoulder, standing right near her side, and she has no idea how long he’s been there.

She sucks in a breath. “I don’t understand how there can be a world without Fred laughing in it.”

She turns to look at him, and he stares back at her, his expression painful.

“Me neither, Gin,” he says, voice rough.

Her breath hitches in her throat, her whole body feeling like it’s folding in on itself, and Ron is pulling her tight against him like he might be able to hold her together.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. Hey, hey.”

He just keeps murmuring to her over and over again as she buries her face in his chest and sobs, her entire body shaking with the force of it.

His hand strokes her hair, and when she finally quiets a bit he says, “Hey, Harry,” his voice a deep rumble under her cheek. “Remember that time one of Fred and George’s telescopes punched Hermione in the face and she was left with a black eye for days?”

There’s a long pause, and then Harry speaks from somewhere behind them. “Yeah,” he says, voice sounding a bit thick. “Your mum tried everything to get rid of it.”

Ron nods against the top of her head. “And, Merlin, those stupid canary creams, and Fred testing them on first years in the common room and Hermione railing at him.”

“While you tried to pretend you didn’t see,” Harry points out.

Ron lets out a strangled laugh.

“Wish I could have seen that,” Ginny sniffles.

“Seriously,” Ron says. “The Gryffindor common room was like a puking, custardy, fainting disaster area that entire year. It was brilliant.”

“I can only imagine,” she says, turning her head so she can see Harry.

He’s standing near the top of the stairs, one hand still on the banister as he watches them like he isn’t sure he should be here. He meets her gaze across the landing, and it should be embarrassing for him to see her like this, but he just gives her a sad smile.

He gestures downstairs, almost like a question, and she shakes her head. She doesn’t need him to leave. Doesn’t want him to.

Ron spins off another story and another, often embarrassing to him, but always highlighting Fred.

The three of them end up sitting on the landing, swapping tales and stories, Ginny wiping endless tears from her face. Ron sheds his own share, but he also keeps carefully including Harry in their remembrances, like he doesn’t want him to feel like he’s intruding.

“That wasn’t the twins,” Ginny says after Ron shares yet another humiliating story of pranks gone spectacularly wrong.

“What?” he asks.

“That was me.”

Ron gapes at her.

Ginny lets out a watery laugh. Stretching her legs out in front of her, her leg bumps up against Harry’s knee.

Neither of them move away.

They gradually fall into silence, all three of them lost in memories.

Ginny leans her head on Ron’s shoulder, rubbing at her chest. “It’s like there’s a hole in here now, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to fill it.”

“Maybe we aren’t meant to,” Ron says, looking down at his toes. “I mean, something should be different, shouldn’t it?”

Ginny considers that. “Yeah,” she says. “Maybe you’re right.”

Ron nudges her shoulder. “It happens sometimes.”

She smiles up at him. “Fortunately not too often.”

“Brat,” Ron says, and leans over and presses a kiss to the top of her head.

Wrapping her arms around his waist, she hugs him tight.

*     *     *

The sun has barely begun to stain the horizon when someone sits down on the edge of Harry’s bed. He’s surging up and reaching for his wand before he even really understands what is going on.

“Harry,” a voice says, hand touching his foot through the covers.

“Ginny?” he asks, lowering his wand. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” she says, voice slightly hushed, or maybe still rough with sleep.

She certainly doesn’t seem stressed or alarmed, so Harry lets himself relax, willing the panic back down his throat. Pulling a hand through his hair, he wonders how long his body is going to keep thinking it’s still in the middle of a war.

“Sorry,” Ginny says, her hand moving up to squeeze his ankle comfortingly, as if she knows exactly what is going on in his head.

Harry pulls himself up to sit back against the headboard, and Ginny shifts to sit cross-legged facing him. She’s wearing a light-colored tank top and pajama bottoms, her short hair mussed. Her face is still slightly creased with sleep, and Harry has to resist the urge to reach out and touch the line of freckles down her arm.

“Happy birthday,” she says.

Harry’s eyes snap back to her face. In his surprise at her sudden appearance, he’s forgotten. “Oh, yeah,” he says.

“Eighteen,” she says with a smile. “Quite the old man.”

He huffs. He’d joke that it doesn’t feel all that different from seventeen, but it does. It feels worlds apart. Lifetimes.

She holds out a rolled up scroll tied with a ribbon.

“What’s this?” he asks.

She shrugs. “Presents are traditional on birthdays, aren’t they?”

She says it like it’s not a big deal, but she’s never given him a gift before, and the very fact that she’s clearly gone to some trouble to make sure they could do this alone betrays any attempt at casual.

He takes the scroll from her, smiling down at the bow. It’s purple with little golden snitches wiggling all over it. “Nice,” he says.

The corner of her mouth lifts, her fingers absently picking at his quilt.

Pulling the bow undone, he rolls open the parchment. There are two sheets. Other than a barely visible string of runes embossed along the top and one side, they’re blank. He frowns down at them a moment, very aware that she’s watching him closely.

“Thank you,” he says.

She rolls her eyes at him. Getting up, she moves to the head of the bed. He shoves over so she has room to sit facing him, her knee brushing up against his hip. Taking one of the parchments from him, she lays it on the small table by his bed. She picks up a quill and carefully writes, _Happy Birthday, Harry_ on it.

She looks at him, gesturing at his wand. “Do you mind?”

It takes him a moment to remember that she is still underage for almost two more weeks.

“ _Iacio_ ,” she says, tapping her finger on the parchment.

Leaning across her, he taps his wand to the parchment, saying the incantation. The words melt away.

The other parchment still in Harry’s hand vibrates slightly, and he looks down at it to see that the top runes have darkened.

“ _Revelio_ ,” Ginny prompts.

Harry taps the parchment, saying the word. Instantly, the words _Happy Birthday, Harry_ appear in her handwriting. All in all, a nice piece of magic.

He looks up at her, and she gives him a smile that looks the tiniest bit nervous.

“Luna helped me make them. She says that physical distance won’t affect the charms or anything. I mean, of course they’re yours to do with as you like. They’re your present. But I thought—” She stops, clearing her throat. “If you wanted to leave one here with me…”

“We could write,” Harry says as the implications of the gift sink in. Instant communication from halfway across the world. All without the bother of owls and post.

“Yeah,” she says. “I thought it might be better than staring at a dot.”

“Or not having a dot at all?” he says.

She nods. “Yeah.”

He dares to reach out and squeeze her fingers. “Thank you.”

Her hand twists open under his, her palm pressing flush against his. “You’re welcome.”

She watches him, seeming to hesitate a moment before leaning in, her lips the barest sensation against his cheek. “Happy Birthday, Harry,” she says, and he feels everything flip back to his last birthday--his upcoming departure, everything uncertain and confusing and frightening. Except this. 

Except her.

They stay there a moment, in each other’s space but not touching. And then she’s pulling away. He wills himself not to hold on as she slips away, instead lifting one of the parchments.

“Don’t forget this,” he says.

She takes it, tucking it carefully into her chest. “I won’t,” she promises.  

He watches her leave, reminding himself that at the very least, he’ll have her words.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are with the last chapter of the first story in the series! It's meant to bridge the time between the Final Battle and the epilogue for The Changeling and the beginning of Ginny's 7th year, but I am in no way done. Far more Harry and Ginny to come! Many thanks again to Bethany and TimeShifter and Sorcerer's Muse for being awesome betas and sounding boards and for making this story so much better.

Antonia looks up as Ginny enters, gesturing her vaguely towards the back of the shop before returning her attention to the stooped old witch at the counter.

Ginny ducks into the back room. Tilly is already there, sitting at a small table while Theodora stands off to one side.

The two are a study in contrasts--Tilly small and delicate with slightly wavy dark hair, while Theodora is tall and pale and regal. She seems to loom as large as she always has in Ginny’s mind, blond hair no longer pulled back in a tight ponytail but rather an intricate chignon, nails carefully manicured, and robes exquisitely tailored of fine fabric. She can’t be much more than twenty-two, but still manages to feel somehow very grown up. Professional.

Ginny tells herself to take that as a comfort, that it means she’ll be able to help.

“Ginny,” Tilly says. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course,” she says, squeezing Tilly’s fingers before sitting down next to her. “Hello, Theodora. It’s been a long time.”

“It certainly has,” she says, setting her cool gaze on her. Ginny can’t shake the feeling that the former Mistress is trying to take her measure. Ginny merely looks back at her, letting her get her fill.

It isn’t too long until Antonia joins them. She sweeps in looking a little out of breath. “Sorry,” she says. “I have never had a more indecisive customer in my life. Cabbages are apparently serious business.”

She sits down on the other side of Tilly.

“What have you found?” Tilly says, looking expectantly at Theodora.

“He has no legal recourse,” she says, voice blunt and matter-of-fact.

Tilly deflates. “What?”

“Legally his loss of magic renders him mentally incapable of making his own decisions about his health care, his money, and his property.”

“He’s lost his magic, not been mentally impaired!” Ginny says.

Theodora looks back at her with a dispassionate expression. “There is no distinction between the two in our current legal code.”

“That’s barbaric,” Ginny says.

“Well,” Tilly says, voice bitter. “We must keep the wealth and property in magical hands, now mustn’t we? Or what’s next, Muggle overlords?”

Antonia reaches over and squeezes Tilly’s hand. “So there is nothing standing in the way of his parents completely disowning him.”

“There is one thing,” Theodora says.

Tilly leans in. “Which is what?”

“His legally binding betrothal to an of-age witch.”

“Yes,” Tilly says, sounding impatient. “But I don’t have the right to make decisions for him either. You said that.”

Theodora lays a copy of the betrothal papers on the table. “This agreement doesn’t just propose the marriage of two people, but also a merging of their assets.” She looks at Tilly. “His assets have been promised to you.”

She frowns. “Does that mean I can protect him? I don’t know, take them and then give them back to him?”

“Certainly,” Theodora says. “If you marry him.”

A stunned silence fills the room.

Tilly is the first to break it, letting out a harsh laugh. “So this is what I get to decide. Marry him and protect him from losing everything he’s ever had, or break the betrothal and let them toss him aside like he’s nothing.”

Ginny leans in, mind running through the implications as fast as she can. “Can she marry him, sign everything over to him, and then divorce him?”

Theodora shakes her head. “Married or not, he has no legal right to control assets. If she divorces him, he goes back to the care of his parents. Unless he chooses to live like a Muggle. But Squibs and Muggles are treated the same under the law. Neither have the right to magical inheritances or properties.”

“Meaning she would have to stay married to him?” Antonia asks.

“Yes.”

“That’s—” Ginny starts to say.

“The legal facts,” Theodora smoothly cuts across her, and Ginny doesn’t understand how she can appear to be so unmoved by all of this.

Ginny turns to Tilly. “Do you love him?”

“Does it matter?”

Ginny doesn’t have an answer for that. It feels like it should matter, shouldn’t it?

Tilly shakes her head. “If it were just down to me, I am as opposed to this arrangement as ever. But that’s not what this is about anymore, is it?”

Ginny refuses to accept that. “Tristram will never agree to this.” Trapping her into a sham marriage just to keep his birthright.

The look Tilly gives her is ruthless. “He doesn’t have the right to agree or not, remember?”

“Tilly,” Ginny says.

She shakes her head, pushing to her feet. “I just need to…think about all of this.”

Theodora holds out a sheath of parchments. “Everything is detailed in this report. You should look it carefully over.”

Tilly takes it. “Thank you, Theodora. For everything.”

Theodora nods.

Tilly tucks the file into her chest, sweeping up the rest of her things. “I’ll see you all later.”

“Let us know if there is anything you need,” Ginny says.

She nods distractedly and disappears out the door.

Antonia lets out a breath, leaning back in her chair. “I don’t envy her that choice.”

Theodora picks up the remaining papers, tapping them efficiently on the table. “It’s simple enough. She’s just being too emotional. It should be a decision of economics. She has a lot to gain from the arrangement.”

Ginny looks up at her. “They’re people, not bank accounts.”

Theodora regards her a bit like an annoying bug, and Ginny has to remind herself that she’s not a thirteen-year-old girl anymore. They’re equals now, and Ginny has been through things she couldn’t dream of.

“Decisions must be made with facts and consequences, not emotions. Or have you still learned nothing after all these years?” Theodora slides Antonia a look, and it’s the first time Ginny considers that Theodora didn’t necessarily agree with Antonia’s choice of her as Mistress.

“Excuse me?” Ginny says, voice icy.

Theodora looks unimpressed. “I suppose I should be surprised only one sister died on your watch.”

Vaguely Ginny hears Antonia suck in a breath, too busy drowning in a wave of pain and rage, a strange white noise buzzing in her head.

Theodora just stares back, completely unapologetic, and something at the back of Ginny’s mind is telling her not to take the bait, but right now that is all just noise.

Ginny stands, calm and methodical in her movements despite the rush of blood roaring in her ears.

“What I’ve learned, Theodora, is what I’m willing to become, and what I’m not. And if emotions make me weak, so be it. That’s a consequence I can live with.” She squares her shoulders, affecting an expression of boredom despite the roiling emotions in her chest. “Not that it’s particularly any of your concern. Your time has passed.”

There’s a flash of something in Theodora’s eyes that Ginny could almost call surprise, but she honestly doesn’t care one way or the other. She’s not here to be tested or play anyone’s games.

“Lovely seeing you again, Theodora,” Ginny says, voice smooth and cutting.

Theodora merely nods in response.

“Antonia,” Ginny says in farewell.

“Ginny,” she says, putting out a hand to stop her.

She pauses.

Antonia darts a glance at Theodora before looking back at her. “I hope you have a nice birthday,” she says a little weakly.

Ginny smiles. “Thanks. I’ll see you later, okay?”

Antonia nods.

Arriving back at the Burrow, Ginny walks straight up to her room. Glancing around the empty space, she decides the last thing she wants right now is to be alone with her thoughts. Turning back for the stairs, she goes up and up until she’s standing outside Ron’s door.

She knocks.

“Come in!” he shouts.

She pushes open the door, finding Ron and Harry sitting on his bed while off to one side Hermione is elbow-deep in a suitcase.

Packing. Wonderful.

“Hey,” Ginny says vaguely in greeting before petulantly heaving down between Ron and Harry.

“What’s up with you?” Ron asks, budging over to make room for her.

She flaps a hand, still feeling too riled to even attempt to explain. “Just annoyed.”

“At me?” he asks, looking scared.

Ginny rolls her eyes. “Hermione?” she calls out.

She lifts her head from the disaster that is Ron’s suitcase. “Yes?”

“You’d better follow through with Magical Law. Because it’s a giant mess and I’m really going to enjoy watching you browbeating it into shape. Or better yet, burning the entire bloody thing down and starting over from scratch.” With that pronouncement, she flops back on the bed, covering her face with her hands.

“Don’t worry,” Ron says, patting her knee awkwardly. “There’s nothing Hermione can’t bend to her will.”

From across the room, Hermione lets out a yelp.

“Other than that suitcase, apparently,” Harry says, voice dry.  

“What do you even have in here?” Hermione demands.

“Whoa, hey,” Ron protests. “That’s very important!”

The bed shudders as he scrambles up to his feet, off to rescue his belongings from Hermione, no doubt.

“All right there?” Harry asks, voice barely a murmur as he nudges her leg.

She looks up at him between her fingers. “Just having an I-hate-everyone kind of a day.”

His eyebrows lift. “Should I be worried?”

He’s hardly _everyone,_ but she’s also not going to actually say that. “I thought you were supposed to be brave in the face of danger.”

“Well,” he says, “wrestling a skrewt is one thing, getting on your bad side another altogether.” He mock shudders.

She can’t help but smile at his stupid antics. “Merlin. Just shut up, will you?”

Instead of being offended like he should be, he just makes a ridiculous little mime of zipping his lips shut, and how is he even real?

“Ugh,” she complains, closing her eyes. “Stop making it hard to be in a bad mood.”  

She can practically _hear_ him smiling, the git.

Across the room Hermione and Ron continue to bicker, and Ginny does her best to let the day slide off of her. The only problem is that as her anger fades, all she’s got left is this horrendous _sadness_.

She blows out a breath, feeling it all welling up. She cracks an eye open, and Harry is still there, looking down at her like he isn’t at all sure what to do. 

“Just keep sitting there, okay?” she tells him.

“Yeah,” he says. “I can probably manage that.”

His knee presses into hers and doesn’t move away.

*     *     *

Ginny doesn’t wake up on her birthday and just start using magic indiscriminately. She doesn’t make her dishes walk themselves over to the sink or put a glamor on her hair to make it look slightly better than usual. As much as she is so insanely relieved to finally have the option, she isn’t interested in silly tricks.

The only thing she asks for is her dad to take her into the Ministry with him first thing so she can take her Apparition test. No one asks why, and she’s glad not to have to explain the importance of it, the need to have every tool in her arsenal. Apparition is more than just a quick escape. It’s another level of control. A way to move freely through the world.

She needs it.

So after a special birthday fry-up, they leave Ron and her mum working on her birthday cake, and Hermione and Harry outside setting up the garden for the evening’s celebration.

Arthur drops her off at the Department of Transportation. “Want me to wait with you?”

She shakes her head. “No need for you to waste your morning.”

His eyes twinkle. “You’d be saving me from paperwork.”

She knows he’s joking, lifting up and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll find my own way home, Dad.”

He hugs her tight. “I know you will.”

After an hour and a half of waiting, she passes on her first attempt. Which is great not only for expediency’s sake, but also because she can lord it over Ron that she still has two eyebrows.

She Apparates to Diagon Alley, meeting Neville, Luna, and Hannah at a pub for lunch. She hasn’t spent much time in public this summer, but knowing she has the right to her wand and the ability for a quick escape make it far more enjoyable than it has been in the past.

They talk about their plans for the upcoming term and make a huge fuss over her birthday, and she starts to feel like maybe she’ll be able to do it; go back to that school.

She Apparates home to Bill and George lounging near the front walk, the two of them giving her a lazy round of applause and rating her Apparition skills.

“A bit loud,” Bill says. “Never going to sneak up on anyone like that.”

“Good,” George says. “Slytherin are sneaky enough. Ginny in particular. We should put a bell around her neck so we always know where she is.”

“How did you know what I got her for her birthday?” Bill asks with mock shock.

Ginny crosses her arms over her chest. “You two realize I can use my wand with impunity now, right?”

They look at each other.

“Did you just hear Mum calling us?” Bill asks.

George nods. “Definitely.”

They scramble to their feet and flee.

Dinner is held out in the garden, the table laden with all of Ginny’s favorites. There’s also a pile of sweets from her brothers, a couple of paperbacks from Tobias and her dad, and an assortment of barrettes and more practical headbands from Fleur. Hermione hands over a book of everyday advice for NEWTs revision.

“It’s never too early to start planning,” she says.

“Thanks, Hermione,” Ginny says, trying to look enthused.

Harry nudges a parcel towards her. “Hermione stole my idea, so I had to go with this instead.”

Hermione shoots him an exasperated look.

Ginny takes the package with a smile, pulling the paper off. Inside is another book called _Seriously Offensive Quidditch Drills._

It’s not one she’s read, but it’s written by Sheldon Mosul, one of the best Chasers ever to play for the Magpies. She opens it with interest; only the second she cracks the cover, an illustration of the famous Chaser charges onto the page and rather thoroughly and lewdly curses at her.

It’s only then that Ginny remembers he is only slightly less famous for being one of the most foul-mouthed Chasers ever to play for Britain.

_Now get off your arse and let me show you how to make your opponents look like a bunged up group of manky arsemongers in your grandfather’s tutu!_

There is a moment of stunned silence at the table before Ginny bursts into laughter, completely taken by surprise.

Mosul shouts at her again, questioning her parentage and wondering if she’s always been this much of a lazy tosser.

Ginny slams the book shut, looking up at Harry. “Thanks.”

He shrugs. “I figure if I can’t be there for you bounce ideas off of, this would be the next best thing.”

She opens the book again, a string of rude curses floating out. “Yes, it reminds me of you quite a bit.”

He grins.

“Ginny, put that away!” Molly says. “I will not have such foul language at the dinner table!”

“Hey, we’re all of age here now,” Ginny points out. “There’s no delicate ears to protect.”

“Well,” Molly says primly. “ _My_ ears still need to be protected.” The effect is ruined a bit by how misty her mum looks at the reminder that her youngest child is all grown.

Ginny dutifully puts the book away, stacking it on top of the others.

Molly gets to her feet, crossing over to stand near Ginny. She pulls a small box out of her apron. “And there’s just this.”

Ginny gets up too, taking the small box from her. Inside there is a small teardrop-shaped timepiece hanging from a delicate gold chain.

“Mum,” Ginny says, running her fingers over the fine engraving. “It’s beautiful.”

Molly takes it from the box, settling it over Ginny’s head, fiddling a bit with the chain to make sure the pendant sits perfectly. “It was my mother’s,” she says, her finger nudging it. She looks up at Ginny. “I’ve been saving it for today.”

“Really?” Ginny says, looking down at it, the elegant numbers and slender dials.

Molly nods, squeezing Ginny’s shoulders. “It’s not every day your daughter becomes a woman. And what a wonderful woman you’ve become.”

Ginny feels her throat close up. “Thanks, Mum,” she manages to say, giving her a tight hug. They both cling to each other long past what is probably necessary.

“Well,” Ron says after another protracted silence. “Is this a party or not? I want some of that bloody cake. It took long enough to make.”

Ginny’s grateful for the distraction, she and her mum pulling away from each other and trying to discreetly wipe away any tears.

“I definitely want some cake,” Ginny says. “But if you made it, I hope it doesn’t poison everyone.”

“I’ll tell you what I think of that,” Ron says, picking up the Quidditch book and putting a sonorous charm on it.

Soon foul language is echoing across the garden, only to be outdone by Molly’s shrill threats of extra chores and bedtime with no cake.

*     *     *

The night before their flight, Molly comes into Harry’s room.

She holds out a sweater to him. “You weren’t here at Christmas, so I never got a chance to get this to you.”

It’s his Weasley sweater, a bright scarlet ‘H’ knit into rich brown wool. He takes it from her, his fingers tightening on the soft cable knit. He feels a litany of apologies rise up in his throat—for last Christmas, for this new departure—but forces himself to swallow them back down.

“Thanks, Molly,” he says instead.

She nods, taking it from him and crossing over to his suitcase, zipping it open to place it inside. “It will help keep you warm. Honestly, winter in August. What kind of place is this?”

She clucks over his things and pulls everything out to repack it. Harry opens his mouth to protest, only to close it again, knowing that if Molly wants to repack his suitcase there is very little he can do to stop it.  

“Do you have everything you need?” she asks. “Socks? Dress robes? You never know what occasions might arise, after all.”

Harry just nods, letting her fuss over him. “Yes, Molly,” he says occasionally.

He reminds himself just who has been doing his holiday laundry for him the last seven years and refuses to be embarrassed as she refolds his pants.

Eventually she seems content, or simply runs out of things to ask him about.

She turns to look at him. “I want you to know, Harry, that this room will always be waiting for you. No matter where you go, or what happens. You have a home.”

Harry feels pressure in his throat. Somehow he manages to nod. “Thank you,” he very nearly croaks. “For everything.”

She smiles at him, touching his cheeks before pulling him into a hug.

After a moment, he hugs her back, pretending not to notice the tears she wipes away as she bustles out of the room.

That evening, despite the fact that they all need to be up insanely early, they all linger in the sitting room long after everyone has gone up, like they don’t want to waste their last hours home in sleep.

Hermione triple checks packing lists and tickets and maps, Ron eventually pulling her back on the couch, folding her into his side. “It’s all going to work out,” he says against the top of her head. “You’ll see.”

Hermione sighs and relaxes against him.

Harry glances over at Ginny where she is curled up in a chair. She’s watching the two of them with a fond and slightly forlorn look on her face. As if feeling his eyes on her, she looks over at him, giving him a bracing smile.

They all fall into subdued silence, no one saying a thing for what feels like at least half an hour.

“Well,” Ginny says, pushing to her feet, “I’m going up. I’ll be up bright and early to see you lot off properly.”

Something in her tone has Ron instantly on alert. “What did you do?”

She gives him an overly innocent expression, eyes wide. “Why, I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ron.”

He curses. “Did you do something to my suitcase? Because Hermione spent ages packing it.”

Ginny sighs, taking pity on him. “I didn’t do anything.”

He relaxes.

“Yet,” Ginny adds.

“Ginny!” he complains, and Harry can’t help but think that this is Ginny’s way of sending her brother off, like she wants her fill of tormenting him. Ron just mutters under his breath about little sisters and nightmares like he isn’t going to miss her just as much.

Ginny looks at Hermione. “You coming?”

“I don’t think I could sleep,” Hermione says, fingers twisting in her lap.

“You should at least try,” Ginny says. “Being exhausted is just going to make tomorrow even more of an ordeal.”

Hermione shakes her head.

Ginny turns to Harry. “What about you, Potter? Going to be a good role model?”

“What?” he asks, caught off guard. He looks over at Ron and Hermione. “Oh, right. Yeah, I think I’ll turn in.”

They all mumble their good-nights, Harry and Ginny turning for the stairs together in silence. On the landing, they pause, neither immediately moving towards their rooms.

He leans back against the wall, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, still reluctant for this night to end.

To his relief, Ginny moves so she’s leaning next to him, her arms hugged across her chest.

“I was wondering if you would do something for me,” she says.

“Of course,” he says.

She rubs her hand up and down her arm. “Promise me that while you’re gone… Promise me that you’ll live your life.”

“What?” he asks, not quite sure what she means.

Gnawing on her lip, she says, “Promise me that you won’t let the things you’re leaving behind here hold you back. Forget the trials and the Ministry and the war. Forget people expecting things of you. You don’t owe anyone anything. Just…live your life.”

She looks up at him, that fierce look in her eye, and it makes him want to promise her anything. But he also knows what she’s really saying: for him not to wait around, not for something she can’t promise ever to be again, like that’s a weight she’s not sure she can handle having to carry around.

They don’t know what’s going to happen. Or where they’ll be by the time they see each other again. And he’s already decided to give her whatever she needs.

“Only if you promise me something in return,” he says.

“What?” she asks, looking wary.

“Win the Quidditch house cup.”

She lets out a startled laugh. “Yeah?”

“I mean it,” Harry says. “Like, completely eviscerate them. I won’t accept anything less.”

“Rooting against your own House there, Potter?” she says, turning towards him and pressing a hand to her chest as if comically shocked.

“I know,” he says with a wince. “I’d appreciate you keeping that to yourself.”

She smiles, her head resting against the wall near his shoulder. “A Slytherin never tells, remember?”

“So I’ve been told,” he says. Without thinking, he reaches up, his fingers barely brushing against the piece of hair stubbornly hanging across her eye.

Her smile slowly fades. He’s hyper-aware of how close she is, the two of them alone in the dim space of the landing. It would take nothing to lean across that last space, to tell her that he’s not expecting anything, but that he has every intention of waiting anyway. And he wants to. He really, really does.

But even if he did, it wouldn’t change anything. He’s still leaving tomorrow. She still has that haunted look in her eyes some days. They still decided to be friends. And it feels like all he’s ever done is kiss her goodbye.

So instead, he drops his hand. “I expect to get the play by play after every match.”

“Deal,” she agrees, easing back away from him.

“Good,” he says, giving her the best smile he can manage.

“See you in the morning,” she says.

“Night,” he says, and lets her go.

*     *     *

The Burrow is hectic long before dawn.

Mum is yelling and Ron is yelling back, and Hermione still seems to be last-minute deciding which books and quills to bring. Dad is grinning madly over a road map spread across the kitchen table. Ginny avoids it all by escaping out front.

Outside it is still nearly dark, dawn nothing but a faint glimmer on the horizon.

Harry is sitting on the front steps, clearly just trying to stay out of the way as well.

Ginny regards him for a long moment before lowering herself on the step next to him. “Hey.”

He turns to look at her. “Hey,” he says with a small smile.

She pulls her bag around in front of her, digging through it. “I’ve got something for you,” she says.

“Yeah?” he asks, peering into the bag with interest. “What’s the occasion?”

She pulls the gift out of the bag, pressing it into his hands. “For your trip.”

Harry stares down at the tangle of brightly colored yarn.

“It’s a hat,” Ginny says, knowing it probably isn’t immediately obvious. “It’ll be winter in Australia, right?”

Harry nods, still staring down at the hat, his fingers plucking at the multicolored yarn. “Did you… _knit_ this?” he asks, and she isn’t sure if he’s more incredulous by the idea of her knitting or her spending actual money on it.

Taking it from him, she pulls it down over his head. “It’s actually kind of fun.”

He grins back at her. “All that hiding from your mum for nothing.”

“Who knew?” she says with a shrug.

He lifts his chin, tilting his head this way and that. “So how does it look?”

She takes in the yarn disaster on his head, the black hair sticking out at odd angles through the occasional large hole, his glasses slightly askew.

“Hideous,” she says.

They both start laughing, his arm pressing against hers.

“You don’t actually have to wear it,” she says.

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t want to catch a cold.”

They regard each other for a long moment, his imminent departure seeming to rise up between them.

He looks down at his feet. “I’m coming back,” he says.

“Yeah?” she asks.

He shrugs. “I actually get to say that this time.”

She nudges his shoulder. “Okay.”

“What the bloody hell is that?” Ron says.

Ginny turns to see him and Hermione coming down the steps. “Don’t worry, I didn’t leave you out.”

She pulls a scarf out of the bag, getting up to wrap it around Ron’s neck.

“This is the ugliest scarf I have ever seen,” he says, lifting the ends up to peer at the uneven knots.

“Well then,” Ginny says, kissing him on the cheek, “it will go with your face.”

He scowls at her, but doesn’t resist when she pulls him into a hug.

“I love you,” she says into his shoulder.

“Love you too,” he mumbles.

She smiles at him. “Have a good trip.”

She moves over to Hermione next, pushing a scarf in her hands. “I tried mittens, but it was a complete disaster.” She looks at the scarf. “I mean even more of one.”

Hermione smiles, but Ginny can tell she’s nervous.

“Try to keep the boys out of trouble, will you?”

Hermione snorts. “I always _try_.”  

Ginny hugs her. “You did what you had to. They’ll understand.”

She doesn’t know if Hermione finds that a comfort or not.

Her dad bursts out of the house, trunks and suitcases hovering before him and almost mowing them all down.

In the chaos, Ginny turns to Harry, hugging him.

He’s stiff for a moment as if he isn’t expecting it, but then he is hugging her back, his arms folding around her.

She should probably say something. Like _have a nice trip_ or _don’t get into too much trouble_ or _take care of yourself_ , but all she can do is squeeze him tight.

His fingers press into her back, and she thinks she feels his face lower to the top of her head.

Then there is a crash as two suitcases bang together, and Ron is howling about something, and they pull away without so much as looking at each other.

Ginny moves back to the safety of the porch, standing next to her mum, waving as Arthur finally drives them off.

They stand there as the dust settles, long after the car has disappeared around the bend. Ginny glances at her mum, and she’s clearly trying not to cry.

“They’re coming back,” Ginny says, wrapping her arms around her mum’s waist and hugging tight.

“Of course they are,” she says, voice just the tiniest bit wobbly.

“And you still have me.”

Molly reaches out and smooths down Ginny’s hair, hands framing her face. “Yes, I do.” She presses a kiss to her forehead. “Now, shall we see to breakfast?”

When Ginny gets back up to her room, there is a package sitting on her bed. The brown paper is a bit wrinkled, the twine lopsided, like someone painstakingly wrapped it by hand.

There’s a little folded note taped to the top.

_Ginny-_

_I thought you might be able to put this to much better use._

_–Harry_

She unwraps it to find the Marauders’ Map inside.

She smiles.

.fin.


End file.
